


Don't Make Me Chase You

by thatsakitkat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Abusive Sam, Alpha Sam, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Animal Traits, Animalistic, Claiming, Dark Sam Winchester, Dysfunctional Family, Fights, Forced Relationship, Knotting, M/M, Mental Link, Mpreg, Omega Dean, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sam Winchester, Psychic Abilities, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Soul Bond, Underage Sex, Werewolf Healing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 02:24:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsakitkat/pseuds/thatsakitkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam rushes forwards to straddle the small of his back, weight pushing the Omega into the floor. He binds a hand around the nape of Dean's neck and pinches. "You're being a bad bitch," Sam tells him as Dean reflexively relaxes. "Be a good bitch."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> kink meme fill. [also on LJ](http://idontwant-candy.livejournal.com/8797.html)
> 
> [pimping my tumblr as well](http://thatsakitkat.tumblr.com/)

Popping a knot, it's not something that just happens out of the blue. There's a lead up, a build up of growth hormones, of testosterone, of irritation and aggression and restlessness. Sam knows he's gonna be an Alpha a whole year before he is, because no pending Omega or Beta goes from tiny to huge—in every department—like he has; inches and inches piling on as his shoulders broaden, his face sharpens, as his voice cracks and finally drops.  
  
At fifteen he wakes up hard and aching every morning and starts to be able to tell people's gender on scent alone, the differences between Alpha, Beta, and Omega clear as day.  
  
How different Dean smells compared to himself and Dad.  
  
As his hormones climb towards the peak, and Dad starts to smell less like gun oil and leather and more like competition, their arguments turn from muttered words and glares to yells and screams and one time, growls, because Sam's vocal chords have thickened up enough to accommodate the harsh sound.  
  
When Sam's sixteen he's got acne blazed up the sides of his cheeks, and a need to stick his dick in anything that looks like it would fit it. He jerks off in his morning shower, in school bathrooms, in motel bathrooms while Dean's knocking and bitching _could you hurry the fuck up in there Sam, Jesus Christ_ , while Sam's huffing breaths like he's drowning and stripping his dick in the blur of his fist.  
  
But before he pops his knot, no one interests him. Omegas smell fan-fucking-tastic and make him hard in two seconds flat, but Sam doesn't want to fuck any of the pretty ones at school, doesn't want Betas either with their plainscent and disgusted looks they give each other in Family Health when shown diagrams of knots and Omega slick glands.  
  
In Sam's spank bank, it's all faceless bodies, toneless voices, the shape of his hands on hips and anaconda-constriction around his cock. Guys, girls, or no one, just something to fuck in showers, on beds and tables and floors.  
  
He gets shameless the closer he gets to popping it—strokes himself with Dean only feet away in the other bed, jacks off in Dean's car and sprays come on the dashboard, feeling hot and strange when he wipes it off. Feels strange more and more as weird impulses spring up in his mind, thinks things he doesn't understand and tells himself they're just intrusive thoughts but it doesn't stop him from glaring everytime Dad touches Dean in any way, any time Dad even fucking _talks_ to Dean Sam has the clearest thoughts to go over and tear into their father like a wild beast, unsheathe his claws and spray peeling motel walls with Dad's blood.  
  
Sam scares himself. Clenches his teeth up at dark ceilings and tells himself _I hate Dad but I still love him and I don't want to kill him, I don't. Please Oh God I don't_.  
  
It doesn't stop anything. Sam keeps on thinking those evil awful things; fantasizes about ripping and tearing whenever Dean comes back late smelling like alcohol and sex, wants to sink his teeth into the flesh of whoever touches, talks to, or even fucking thinks of his brother. He wants to bite Dean too, but not in the same way; he wants to clamp the skin of Dean's shower-wet freckled shoulder between his eyeteeth and hold him still and quiet. Wants to rub his scent all over him, piss on him, piss on his things to broadcast mineminemine. He wants to run in the cool night with Dean, run to the woods and den with him, for Chrissakes.  
  
Nothing makes sense. Dean's his annoying, suffocating, over-protective big brother who makes lame pop culture jokes and listens to shitty music and would kneel down and lick Dad's boots clean if he only asked. Barely tolerable on the best of days; Sam does everything he can to spend as little time around yessir-nosir-Sam-doesn't-know-what-he's-talking-about-sir as possible.  
  
It's gotta be some stupid hindbrain mix-up. Dean's unmated, unclaimed, and his scent fucks with Sam's mind. Everyone's scent fucks with Sam's mind, and sometimes he wishes he'd end up Beta just to not have to smell people all the time and have these dumb instincts and intrusive thoughts and a chafed dick from how much he jerks it with his calloused palm.  
  
He's going to end up a dumb knothead despite how much he rivals against that very idea. He's going to piss away a chance at a normal, Beta-life to embrace his inner wolf completely and end up living in the woods like countless Alphas before him because he won't have a purpose like Dad does, no lifelong mission except burying himself in his bitch every night and building their pack with three, six, nine pups.  
  
Sam's gonna lose his fucking mind.  
  


***

  
  
When Sam pops his knot, it's a cloudy Thursday inside a motel located in the ass-end of nowhere. Sam wakes up that morning to the personal alarm clock named Dean saying _time to get up, assholes and elbows_ , muffled by a mouthful of toothbrush and paste.  
  
Sam doesn't feel good, and it only takes him seconds into his usual morning routine to realize school's not in the playbooks for today—his legs shake on the way to the bathroom, heart beating in his ears and pulsing his whole body down to the carpet.  
  
Dean, who was spitting toothpaste in the bathroom sink, comes spilling out, sugarysweethoneyscent tendriling up Sam's nose, and oh _fuck_ —  
  
"Don't touch me Dean!" Sam shouts, even as his brother's falling down next to him, arms trying to pick him up like Sam's twelve and still weighs ninety pounds. Sam rolls away from him, onto his back and tries to heave enough breath into his lungs to tell Dean to get the fuck out.  
  
Dean's above him now, hands on Sam's shoulders. "Sam, Sammy, it's okay—"  
  
"Not okay!" Sam roars with a bunch of teeth, can feel his ears sliding up his head as his body starts to shift.  
  
"I'm gonna call Dad, okay? He's—"  
  
At that, something lances through Sam's mind, through all the crevices that make Sam, Sam, and a hot swell of rage and possessiveness surges through his blood.  
  
He wants to fuck Dean. Can see him in his mind's eye, can see himself rearing up and forcing Dean down to the floor, rending off his clothes and fucking himself in, can feel the struggles of his bitch beneath him and can taste copper on his teeth when he bites into Dean's flesh and holds him there, and when Dad comes back, Sam'll just fucking kill him, and that's a certainty. Kill anyone who tries to take his bitch from him.  
  
Sam wrestles back control from his wolf and stops the shifting process to tell Dean "please, oh God, touch me."  
  
"Sam, what's the matter with you?"  
  
Sam grabs his face, claws piercing Dean's delicate fair skin, making him bleed. He doesn't think what he says next is English. It comes from too deep within to have a language.  
  
But Dean understands, skin folding under Sam's hands as he makes a face. "We're brothers, man."  
  
His own hand's not gonna cut it. Neither is Dean's, probably, but at least he'll have some part of his bitch wrapped tight around his knot. He takes a hand off Dean's face to push the waistband of his boxers down his thighs. His cock springs into the cool air, which is a caress all on its own.  
  
Dean makes a noise of protest and tries to move away. Sam whips his hand up and grabs Dean's wrist and jerks the reluctant hand down to his cock, Dean's fingertips brushing against.  
  
"Please," Sam growls, pleads, about to start fucking crying at the need for relief, at how it's getting harder and harder to keep his wolf suppressed so he doesn't just jump on Dean and fuck him. "Please, please, _please_."  
  
"It's okay Sam," Dean says, voice quiet and absent because his big eyes are looking at Sam's dick.  
  
Sam removes his other hand from his face and wraps it around Dean's wrist as well, runs Dean's knuckles up his cock, "please."  
  
He wonders what he must look like—wet eyes flashing with his wolf, face half-transformed, lips twisted to make room for his lengthened teeth.  
  
Dean shifts his shoulders, then wraps his fingers around the base portion of Sam's dick and squeezes tight in a way that's practiced and Sam feels laser-hot fury at the idea that Dean's been with another Alpha even as he throws an arm over his mouth to muffle his howl at the sensation.  
  
His brand new knot grows inside the tunnel of Dean's fist and he instinctively ruts and grinds, drooling on his own wrist, sound choked up in his throat and eyes turning back in his head behind their lids. It is so much sensation for so little contact, so much outside of the feeling in his cock; Sam can hear Dean's heart galloping, can hear him breathing, can smell every little idiosyncrasy in his buttery scent and how their pheromones are tangling in the air.  
  
Sam's eyes open in time to watch his come arc from his dick, hitting Dean's button-down and the underside of his chin and the sight of it on Dean's skin, dribbling down his throat, makes Sam's tenuous control wither and break. His body breaks and comes back together, bones reforming into something bigger and new.  
  
He leaps up and forward and takes Dean down to the floor, immediately covering him with his body, still spurting cock winding up under the hem of Dean's shirt and rubbing into soft flesh.  
  
His teeth find the meatiest part of Dean's shoulder and sink in through cotton and skin.  
  
" _Sam_!" Dean arches into him, hands, clawed fingers, hitting his head and back. "Fuck offa—I'm not your—Christ!"  
  
 _Hurting_ , Sam's hindbrain chimes, but he can't take his teeth out. Needs to keep still, wait for his mate to stop fighting him.  
  
Dean pulls his ears, which makes Sam wince and growl low, but not move.  
  
Fearscent from Dean burns his nostrils. "Sam, please," Dean solicits, voice wavering, "Sammy, let me go. I get it, I _get_ it."  
  
He doesn't, he _doesn't_. He smells like fearscent and sweat, not submission and mate. Smells like helpless prey underneath Sam's teeth.  
  
As moments tick on and Dean still struggles and sweats and breathes pained breaths, as he doesn't smell Dean's body responding to his Mark, Sam lets his bloody teeth come free.  
  
He sniffs up Dean's come-crusted throat, up his jugular and rubs his face against the scent glands on Dean's cheek and under his ear. Dean pushes at him. "Fuck Sam, stop. Stop. This isn't right; you're my _brother_."  
  
Stupid. If they were meant to be brothers Sam would've turned out Beta or Omega. Not an Alpha, the Yang to Dean's Yin. He's one for a reason. He's one because he's been designed to be the perfect mate for Dean.  
  
Sam's never felt more sure of God's existence.  
  
Frustrated at Dean's unchanged scent, Sam looks at the bite—pierced holes through Dean's shirt blooming blood into the fabric—and considers trying to put his Mark somewhere else to get it to take.  
  
Or maybe Dean requires something else to get him smelling good and submissive and right.  
  
Sam turns him and lays him flat out on his stomach, rumbling in irritation at Dean's flailing limbs, his claws nearly raking back into Sam's face. Sam wraps his furred hands around Dean's human skin and pushes his arms into the floor, ears wheeling back at the strength of Dean's yells. "Get offa me Sam! Sam! Stop this bullshit! Shift back and _get a fuckin' grip_!"  
  
The door slams open. Sam's too single-focused and single-minded to pay it attention, blurry-headed with the need to get inside his mate and lay his claim. Dean screams something, like, "Dad, _don't_!" before there's a deafening sound and agonizing stinging in his chest. Sam looks up then, through the sudden sparkles in his vision, and gets something hard smacked into his skull.  
  
  


***

  
  
Sam wakes up in so much pain he has to roll over and puke before he can even lift his eyelids.  
  
"Sure the maid won't be happy about that," Dad's voice grunts. His scent is uncomfortably near and burning the inside of Sam's nose like pepper. At the feel of covers over him, Sam figures out he's on a bed. He slits an eye open, expecting light to pierce in it, but the room is dim; lights turned off and it must be dawn or dusk because there's only scant blue glow coming in from the windows.  
  
His chest is a tight, burning heart of agony. Sam groans in pain, reaching for it. He feels Dad grab his wrist. "Don't be touching that now, it's just startin' to knit up."  
  
"Hurts bad."  
  
"I bet it does."  
  
Sam licks his dry lips and the memory comes back to him like water filling in cracks. He can still smell Dean's unclaimed scent, taste the copper in his mouth, feel the shape of Dean under him, and then—  
  
Sam's eyes open, finding his father's dark shape sitting on the bed near him. " _You shot me_ ," Sam hisses, wolf roiling.  
  
"Damn right I did," Dad says. "Rock salt put you down quick, huh? You remember that; you remember what you were about to do to your brother?"  
  
Sam does, but he remembers it from two perspectives; what his forebrain is dubbing rape, his hindbrain is calling staking a claim. "My wolf took over. I couldn't... I couldn't stop myself, Dad." Sam's ashamed of himself. Sam's furious at having been stopped. The conflicting thoughts make his stomach roll.  
  
"I noticed the Alpha form," Dad says drily. "So you finally popped it and lost all control of yourself in the process, that your excuse? _That's_ what you're gonna tell Dean?"  
  
"Dean knows what happened," Sam asserts. "He knows I wasn't aware of what I was doing. Where is he?" Needs to see him, breathe in his scent and find a way to get him smelling like Sam's mate, because that's what he is. Not that Sam's gonna tell Dad that.  
  
Dad sighs. "Told him to get out of here. Don't know where he went. He was pissed as all hell I shot you."  
  
Sam's lips quirk in a small smile. "It's healing," he says. His eyes have adjusted to the low light and when he looks at his bare chest he can see the edges of his flesh pulling in over the wounds, the process going faster now that he's conscious, further aided by the fact he's now a full-blown Alpha.  
  
"Told him you were gonna be fine." John stands up from the bed. "He's just lucky I got here in time."  
  
Sam says nothing. When Dad goes into the kitchenette to grab a beer, he sits up gingerly and swings his legs out of the sheet and over the edge of the bed. He snorts when he sees he's in a pair of sweats and wonders if it was Dad or Dean who opted to get that personal with his junk.  
  
He pads into the bathroom to brush his teeth, staring at himself in the mirror. His chest's healed, smooth sienna skin stretched neat over the flat of his pectorals. He scrubs over his molars and sighs. Stupid to think popping a knot would give him muscles within hours, but it's still frustrating to look at the jut of his collarbone and his thin arms and realize he's still lanky. Of course, he's sixteen and has inches on Dean, so there's that. When he starts packing on muscle he's gonna be huge.  
  
He's just spat out the foam in his mouth when a thick, sugary almond and vanilla scent curls around his nose. He watches his eyes redden in the mirror, his nostrils flare, before he's tumbling out of the bathroom and seeing, seeing—  
  
Dean. Pretty pretty Dean, closing the door, tossing his keys on the end table, meeting Sam's eyes. Sam jerks his eyes around Dean's face, from the arch of his eyebrows to the dip in his chin; the face of his _mate_ , and every part of Sam's body seems to lurch forward even while he's still.  
  
Dean's ten times more beautiful, smells ten times better. Sam wants to claw off his clothes, fuck right into him, hold Dean down by putting his teeth in his neck, leave his Mark, make it take this time.  
  
"Sammy," Dean says, the low tone of his voice vibrating Sam's eardrums pleasantly. Sam can hear the Omega in Dean's subvocals, which makes his own wolf thrum with need.  
  
"Dean," Sam breathes, stepping up to him. His forebrain's in control right now, so he doesn't do what he really wants, but instead turns his cheek against Dean's, spreading his scent over the wintry one of Dean's aftershave. The familial move's not enough, and his hands twitch at his sides with the urge to pull away Dean's jacket, shirt and jeans and properly scent him.  
  
Dean looks over his chest before he's slipping past him, meeting Dad in the kitchen, who likely burns Dean's cheek with stubble as he greets Dean in turn.  
  
Sam growls softly, wolf roiling in his mind at the presence of another Alpha, putting his scent on Dean, asking him how he's doing and where he went.  
  
"All right," Dean says to the first question, "a drive," is what he says to the second. There's some steel in his voice which settles Sam a little; Dean's on his side.  
  
"Sam's all healed up," Dad offers after a moment.  
  
No dice with Dean. "You shouldn't have put a round in him in the first place."  
  
Dad snorts. "It was just rock salt; Sam's fine. Look at him."  
  
Sam sees Dean's jaw muscle twitch spasmodically, smells the burn of angerscent. "We don't shoot each other."  
  
"We do if one of us is compromised, and that includes bein' possessed—not being in your head—like your brother was. I'd ask the same thing of you boys." Dad takes a long pull of his drink and considers Dean. "You wanna step outta line over _this_ , Dean? You're givin' lip to the man who saved your ass. Show some damn respect."  
  
Sam bristles while Dean's angerscent just dies away, replaced with salty smelling sorryscent. Dean nods, his shoulders hunched in. "Sir."  
  
"Don't talk to Dean like that," Sam says to Dad, hating the submission Dad so easily instills in his brother.  
  
"Don't worry about it Sam," Dean says. Might as well be his damn tagline with how much he says it—don't worry about it Sam, butt out Sam, mind your own business Sam, just let Dad walk all over me Sam.  
  
Sam grits his teeth at his father. Doesn't he know Sam's the leader of this pack now? Sam's not only an Alpha, he's got a mate. Himself and Dean should be in charge. Or better off, leave and start their own pack, if Dad's not gonna show them respect.  
  
Dean obviously spots the threads of red starting in both their eyes, because he quickly turns to face Sam. "Dial it down," he says. "You're making this worse than it already is."  
  
"You didn't save Dean from anything," Sam growls at Dad. "What was gonna happen is still gonna happen."  
  
"What—"  
  
"You shut up right now, Sam—"  
  
"And you know it," Sam continues, heedless. "You don't just go Alpha on anyone when you pop it, do you?"  
  
"What's he talking about?" Dean asks Dad.  
  
"Nothing," Dad says. His lips are a tight white line. He flashes red eyes at Sam. "He ain't talking nothing but a bunch of bullshit. Zip it, Sammy. I mean it."  
  
Sam feels the muscles in his face and skull flutter, the itch of his fangs dropping. "Dean's mine," he lisps, vibrating with the urge to wolf out and maim.  
  
Dean stalks up to him and yanks on his arm. "Stop it! What the hell's the matter with you!?"  
  
Dean's claws are out; they prick into Sam's arm, and scratch when Sam jerks the limb away. His wolf chuffs at his mate, not understanding why he's trying to intervene. "You're not Dad's," Sam says firmly. "You're mine, Dean. You're _my_ mate."  
  
"Don't listen to him, Dean," Dad barks. "He's not in the right head. He thinks he's ruling this roost now."  
  
Dean's face is tight with confusion. His lips quirk up nervously, "I don't belong to anybody, Sammy."  
  
 _Yet_. "That's the problem," Sam says. His canines slide back up into his gums and he reaches for Dean. "Soon as I can claim you—"  
  
"Claim me—!?"  
  
"Enough!" Dad yells, Alpha in his tone rubbing Sam's fur the wrong way. "Sam, you better get a new game plan, because there's no way in _hell_ that's gonna happen."  
  
"Or I can leave," Sam says abruptly, looking between them to show how serious he is. "I'm not sticking around if I don't get to claim my mate—it'll drive me up the wall. You know that, Dad. You know that's not how we work." Sam narrows his eyes. "Or maybe you've forgotten after all this time."  
  
Dad's eyes blaze and he takes a threatening step towards him. But Dean's shoving Sam back, pushing him out the door. "You couldn't just shut your damn mouth could you?" he growls.  
  
Cold evening air worms its way under Sam's heated skin. Dean keeps his head in the doorway to say something to Dad, _I'll get him under control_ , or something laughable like that, then Dean closes it and rounds on him. "You know better, Sam!" Dean shoves him a little, back into the railing.  
  
With Dean so close, he can't help but scent the air, smelling the cold temperatures, smelling the burning scent of anger on Dean, smelling just how _unmated_ Dean is.  
  
It makes his wolf restless. He smells Dean through a new nose, hears him with new ears and sees him with new eyes; it's a sensory explosion and fuck, fuck everything if he can't have this.  
  
His eyes must be flashing, because a glow passes through Dean's irises, turning his eyes a lighter shade of green momentarily. "The hell is wrong with you Sam?" he asks, not that Sam hears; he's too focused on how Dean's lush top lip curls over his teeth. " _Sam_."  
  
Sam straightens himself up. It's only two feet that separates them, two feet between Sam's socks and Dean's boots. A single step and Sam could have Dean pinned against the door, helpless as Sam shoves his teeth into his neck to Mark him in the traditional, politically incorrect place where everyone will be able to see it, as he shoves inside Dean's body to make sure his claim takes.  
  
"What was that shit you pulled today, huh?" Dean's asking. "You had me..." he trails off, scent changing, alkaline embarrassment. He colors attractively, purses his pornstar lips and looks away.  
  
A lapel of his jacket has opened too wide, revealing the part of his shoulder where Sam bit him earlier. The ripped fabric's stained red, but the wound's long healed over. Sam grows exponentially angry looking at it; Dean's body rejected the claim, knitted up his skin like it was a bite from any other wolf, and not his mate trying to Mark him.  
  
"You _are_ mine," Sam points out when he can salvage the energy from his forebrain. His wolf's presence in his mind is much bigger now; easier to ride along on his base instincts, and talking aloud now seems unnatural, confining and meaningless. "My mate."  
  
Dean shakes his head. "That's—you—I think you're just agitated, Sam, latching onto me because your wolf's confused. You go back to school tomorrow, see some other Omegas, then—"  
  
Sam's slipping back. "No one else," he says as Dean's words twist in his head, jumbled up. Fuck, it's like speaking another language, it's too damn _complicated_. Pipes in his brain have all been rearranged, words chugging through them. He understands now why Alphas don't become lawyers or doctors. They might dream about it, while they're still knotless and smart and care about other things besides fucking, but after...  
  
His horizons have been clamped; used to have a whole sea and now he's just left with a tiny pool to tap into, shallow end to shallow end.  
  
"'m going for a run," he cuts into whatever Dean had been saying. Because maybe it's Dean that's making him stupid like this. He hopes so. He hopes that once his Mark is a splash of cranberry and grape on Dean's neck that he'll have his prospects back.  
  
"Sam!" Dean yells while Sam rushes down the stairs, "Sam, get back here! _Sam_!"  
  
Dean might be coming down after him, but Sam doesn't look back. He only falters a few steps to yank his sweatpants off in the privacy of the dark, leaves them by the Impala for when he gets back. His wolf leaps out of him without a conscious thought, breaks his spine and legs and smacks his upper body into cement before he gets his paws under him and starts eating up asphalt. He sails down then across the street, heads into the stretch of pine and spruce trees a few miles away and pounds out his frustration among them.  
  
  


***

  
  
When his muscles are weak and buttery, his mouth parched and there's the grassy smell of morning dew cresting in his senses, he turns around. He lopes back through the woods, and falls into a trot when he's on town pavement again. It's uncouth to be fully shifted in public, but this early in the morning there's not many people around to see him anyway.  
  
He follows his own scent trail back to the motel building. Coming into the parking lot, he perks up considerably when he notices that Dad's truck is gone. But what an idiot. Idiot. Leaving Dean all alone, vulnerable to attack. Sam closes his mouth with a gruff noise, and rubs his flank along side the Impala's instinctively. He almost, almost lifts a leg and sprays the tires, but his dick definitely isn't up for unsheathing when it's probably all of nineteen degrees out.  
  
He hauls his wolf back in, convulsing on the icy pavement while he goes through the agony of his ligaments snapping and the bones in his face realigning back into their human shape. Hurts more going from four legs to two than the other way around, always.  
  
Freezing without his fur, Sam gets his sweats up his legs then jogs up the stairs and raps on the door. Dean opens it seconds later, says, "froze your tail off huh?" when Sam darts in past him.  
  
The clock on the nightstand says 5:46, and Sam considers it a moment. It's more than enough time to get ready for school, but Sam hasn't gotten much sleep since he popped his knot, and the exhaustion from the run is catching up to him.  
  
"'m not going," he says to Dean before he falls face-first onto his bed.  
  
Dean makes a strangled noise. "You gotta go, Sam! You never... you never miss school. Didn't you say you had a test today?"  
  
"I said that last week," Sam mumbles into the blankets. Even through them he can scent that Dean's nervous, can feel his eyes on his back. He doesn't know if Dean's wariness makes him proud, or annoyed.  
  
"You're being real weird, Sam. Think 'cause you popped it that you can go off the rails or something? Do you know how pissed Dad is at you?"  
  
"I don't give a fuck about Dad."  
  
Dean just breathes softly a moment. Then, "you know how pissed _I_ am at you? I mean, you tried to... you were going to... what the _fuck_ , Sam? I'm your brother, not your bitch."  
  
"Didn't stop you from jerking me off."  
  
"Because I thought you needed help! That's all it was! I thought—if I didn't do something, you were gonna have a damn aneurysm or something. Doesn't mean I wanted to for Chrissakes."  
  
"Doesn't matter," Sam says, turning his face into the mattress. That damn sluggish sensation is back in his brain again, making it hard to contemplate Dean's words; none of what he's saying makes sense to Sam's wolf. None of it's worth listening to.  
  
Sam drifts off with the lull of Dean's voice in the background.  
  


***

  
  
Sam goes back to school on Wednesday of the next week, after Dad gave the ultimatum for him to either go or drop out. Just like Sam had thought, none of the people at school make his wolf perk up, not a single Beta or Omega.  
  
It's hard to concentrate in class, and other Alphas' grating scents put him in a bad mood from 1st period to 4th. Even so, he wonders how most of them are functioning better than himself. Likely haven't found their mate yet, or maybe they've already gotten their Mark to take so they're not filled with constant squirming restlessness like Sam is—unable to keep his attention on his work, unable to read more than a paragraph at a time, unable to keep his hand steady so his previously neat handwriting becomes jerky chicken-scratch.  
  
He spends lunch in the library day after day, sitting at a table and letting himself veg out, thinking of Dean, Dean, always Dean.  
  
He can't make himself care about anything else. He gets his vocab test back from the teacher who says, "this isn't like you Sam," while he looks listlessly at his 15/30 score in red ink.  
  
"...and you never raise your hand anymore. You've been so active in the time you've been here, and you came here this week and..." She sighs. Sam flicks his eyes up to her and sees an expression on her face that makes him want to drop out. He expects exactly what she says next, "is—is everything all right at home, Sam?"  
  
He shapes his lips into a toothy smile. "Oh, everything's fine," he says lightly, tucking the test results into his backpack so he doesn't have to see them anymore. If she was an Alpha, Sam would tell her he's just popped his knot and she'd understand immediately. As it is, she's a Beta and won't get it.  
  
She's still looking at him with that unsure expression. Obviously his smile didn't reach his eyes. "Just my ma—my boyfriend, we've been having some problems and everything. I'm getting over it, though."  
  
He's not. He's getting worse. He smiles harder.  
  
Her face unfolds a little. "Boyfriend, huh? You just broke half this class' hearts." She pushes off his desk and sighs. "All right, if you need to talk I'm here till five everyday, and I'm free at lunch."  
  
"Got it," Sam says. The final bell of the day rings and he stands, swings his backpack over his shoulder, gives a last clenched-tooth smile at the teacher and trots out of the room. He shoulders and darts through the sea of students until he's out in the fresh cold air.  
  
Past the buses, he spots the Impala's black sheen in a single shaft of sun breaking through the cloud cover. He pulls up short when he sees Dean leaning against it, talking animatedly with a taller boy that Sam recognizes from his gym class. A senior. An _Alpha_.  
  
Coiling snake-tight, Sam steps out of the angle of Dean's view and extends his senses to be able to hear.  
  
"So how much you drop on it?"  
  
"Not a cent," Dean responds to the Alpha, leaning back further and putting his hands in the pockets of Dad's jacket. "Got it from my dad after I got my licence."  
  
"He put it in good hands; there ain't a single nick. Must be a lot of maintenance."  
  
"Ah, nah, little bit of elbow grease here and there. She takes care of herself."  
  
Sam's claws pierce into his palms. Some stupid fucking knotbrain trying to chat up his brother while he's supposed to be in the car waiting for Sam.  
  
"You waiting for someone?" The dumbass asks.  
  
"Yeah..."  
  
"You don't look old enough to have a kid in high school."  
  
"'cause I don't," Dean chuckles. "'m waitin' on my little brother."  
  
"What's his name?"  
  
"Sam."  
  
"Sam... Winchester? That really tall kid?"  
  
"Sounds like."  
  
"Hah! Wow, he's in my gym class. Looks nothin' like you."  
  
"I'll take that as a compliment," Dean says drily. "Speakin' of Sam, where the hell is he. He's usually the first out after the bell."  
  
"Probably in the library, staring into space."  
  
Dean doesn't say anything for a few seconds. "Why would he do that?"  
  
"He's been acting real weird since he popped it. He got all quiet, all of a sudden. He doesn't even go to lunch with those nerdy little friends of his. Eddster says he saw him in the library, just starin' around."  
  
"Lookin' like Mr. Toomey?"  
  
"Yeah. What happened?"  
  
"Nothin'," Dean says immediately, voice sharp. Sam, unable to keep himself still anymore, edges out from behind some shrubbery and starts walking over to them.  
  
"There he is," Dean says lowly, eyebrows settling into a glare at Sam. Sam wonders if Dean knows he'd been listening in. "Finally got the lead out, huh? Dad's got plane tickets to Disneyland."  
  
"We're going there again?" Sam plays along, sidling up to his brother. He unslouches and regards the other Alpha with cold eyes. "Jack," he says, older boy's name finally coming to the forefront. "What're you talking to my brother about?"  
  
Jack scratches the back of his neck. "Sam," he returns. "Just cars and stuff. Never seen a '67 before."  
  
Sam hums flatly.  
  
Dean clears his throat and shifts. "Well, we gotta be gettin' home. Plane takes off at nine and _Sam_ hasn't even packed yet." Dean digs a conspicuous elbow into Sam's side.  
  
"Oh sure," Jack says, disappointment obvious. He's all eyes for Dean. "Hope you guys have fun. It was nice talkin' to you, Dean."  
  
Sam bristles. He wants to put a bar of soap in Jack's mouth and scrub out Dean's name.  
  
"You too," Dean replies, moving to get the door open. Jack grabs his wrist though, and Sam stares at the offending hand and wants to claw it off.  
  
"Hey," Jack says, bubbly and gentle and blue eyes beseeching. "You think I could get your number?"  
  
Sam clenches his jaw so hard he hears the discs pop. He folds his lips in. Dean's eyes meet his a split second before they blink rapidly. "Uh," he says, turning back to Jack. He looks surprised. "You're a little too young for me, dude."  
  
"Aw, c'mon, I'm eighteen," Jack smiles. "Graduating in a few months. We could get—"  
  
"Why don't you just back the fuck off, Jack?" Sam snarls, stepping in front of his brother. His vision pulses and sharpens as Alpha red bleeds in his irises. "He doesn't wanna give you his fucking number."  
  
"Oh, sorry, I didn't know his freaky-ass little bro spoke for him," Jack says, tipping his chin up challengingly. "Why don't you get outta my face, pup? 'fore I make you."  
  
Sam smirks. "You can try. But you lay a finger on me and my brother will kill you before I get a chance to."  
  
Sam feels Dean grab at his shoulder and push. "Get in the damn car Sam."  
  
Sam goes, but keeps his eyes locked on Jack's even when he's in the passenger seat and has to watch through the window.  
  
"Sorry about that," Dean says. "Don't know what the hell is up with him lately. But yeah, I'm more into the Betas, man. The girls. Sorry."  
  
"That's too bad," Jack glums. "You don't know what you're missing."  
  
 _Missing my knot_ , Sam thinks with his face pressed to the glass, lip curled in a snarl at the other Alpha. He's actually glad they're blowing town; he won't have to see his face ever again and risk going completely homicidal on the fucker.  
  
He's so pre-occupied with glaring a hole in Jack's retreating back that the slam of the door makes him start. He unsticks his face from the glass and looks over at Dean, feeling a little less murderous now that they're safely in their space; smell of SamDean and leather and there's no intruding Alphas trying to snatch his mate away.  
  
"I do not need you sticking up for me Sam," Dean says lowly before he sticks the key in the ignition and twists it. The car snarls to life like she's a wolf herself.  
  
Dean makes no move to turn on to the road. He sighs and flexes his fingers on the wheel, then looks at Sam. Sam greedily drinks in his face, licking his lips and thinking about how the curled fan of Dean's eyelashes would kiss his cheeks, his chest, his cock.  
  
Dean looks between his eyes, the seam of his lips splitting, eyebrows drawing up and twisting in. Sam watches his throat work as Dean swallows and soothes his tongue over his teeth when Dean looks out the windshield, revealing the appealing side of his neck. Sam wants to dart in and sink his teeth right into the tendon, drag Dean out of the car and fuck him on the asphalt of the parking lot in the reality of 2:45 in the afternoon daylight, as cold air bites at their skin and birds chirp and people comment.  
  
Dean doesn't, doesn't understand. Sam leans his body away so he can rest against the door while Dean drives, snorting breaths as he tries to keep his wolf under wraps.  
  
He can't handle this much longer.


	2. Part II

Disneyland is a backwater town in the South, where it's dry and hot and no one comes outta their house unless it's to sit in the porch chairs and drink lemonade or hock into a tobacco can. Sometimes they do both at the same time.  
  
They get a little shack and Dad splits a few days in after he's chewed out their victim about how the hell did he get a kobold in his house, and no he can't bring the cat back to the realm of the living.  
  
The shack is cramped and falling apart in places, and Sam can hear rats running in the walls at night, see cockroaches skitter over the rotting floor.  
  
And it's hot.  
  
Dean's licking sweat off his upper lip, on his bed with an arm over his eyes. Since the place is small as fuck, they're sharing a room and Sam is on his own bed picking out shapes in the water-stained, textured ceiling.  
  
"It's hotter than two rats fuckin' in a wool sock," Dean grouses, thumping his leg on his bed. " _God_. No AC—what a bunch of shit."  
  
After picking out a particularly creepy image of Satan poring over a crystal ball, Sam turns his neck to look at Dean. His brother's in a grey wifebeater and black shorts, one knee crossed over the other, grumbling under his breath.  
  
Sam aches. His wolf tosses his head, trying to worm into where Sam's still got some rationality. Pushing it back as best as he can, Sam stretches out with a groan, and wonders for the hundredth time if Dean's feeling the effects of not wearing Sam's Mark. It doesn't seem like it. In theory being around his mate should trigger Dean's heat, but Sam can smell no signs of it coming on.  
  
"Too damn hot," Dean gripes again, like bitching about it will change things.  
  
"Dean?" Sam asks, after the wolf's gained a little purchase in his mind.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"You know you're mine right?"  
  
Dean makes a throaty, frustrated noise. "God Sam, too damn hot to be talking about that bullshit. Why don't you make yourself useful and go get us some Mr. Pibbs. And a bag of ice or two."  
  
"We need to talk about it, Dean—it's messing me up; I can't even think right anymore. Do you know what it's like to, just." Sam's fingers flex open and shut. "I feel like I'm slipping."  
  
Dean's silent a long moment, only sound is their heartbeats and the wet lick of Dean's tongue compulsively cleaning his upper lip. "You're just gonna have to get over it," Dean says then, "find someone else. Someone better."  
  
"There isn't. It's just you. Don't you get that? It's always gonna be you. You're my _mate_."  
  
Dean's breath rustles from his nose. "Look, just 'cause I jerked you off that one time doesn't mean I'm 'your one and only.' Okay? You got it all messed up Sam. I don't know what happened when you popped it, but you've been seriously off the rails lately."  
  
"It's not like I can help it," Sam says. "I never got to 'pick.' It's not—it's not a _choice_ , Dean. And it's driving me crazy just being in this room with you. I can't think."  
  
Dean sits up, unfolding his legs and swinging them over the edge of the bed. Sam loses it a little when his eyes trace the bow of them; legs made to accommodate Sam between them, to grip his waist, to spread wide wide wide.  
  
His dick stiffens and unsticks from his thigh as it starts rising.  
  
"Well, it's not happening Sam," Dean says, big green eyes smaller with stubbornness. "I'm not gonna be your bitch."  
  
Dean's so perfect. His cheeks are ruddy, drop of sweat falling from his hair and down his neck. And his eyes, fierce and challenging, pupils pinpricks from the sunbeam blasting from the window behind Sam, lightening his hair to pure gold and darkening his plump pink lips to an angry scarlet.  
  
"You're my bitch," Sam says, nods. Only thing that makes sense in the world anymore. "You know, those girls, can't give you what you really need. You're not meant for them, Dean."  
  
"Oh fuck you, Sam! You don't know—"  
  
"No no no, Dean, fuck _you_." Sam sits up too, mirroring his brother. "See, what I'm trying to say is: you're meant to get fucked. That's just the way it is. Dad's got you all brainwashed into thinking that's not the case, he's got you denying what you really are. But I know, Dean. I know. I can smell you."  
  
Dean rubs his sweaty forehead, "God, I'm fucking, I'm so fucking _done_ with your bullshit Sam. Man, I gotta get outta here."  
  
Dean's jeans are on the floor. Dean stands to get them. "Let me know when Sam is back in the building," Dean says, reaching, bending down, curling his fingers in the coarse fabric.  
  
Sam gets up. "You're not going anywhere, Dean." His wolf crashes against his skull, trying to leap out of his body.  
  
Dean's got his jeans now, heedlessly starting to step into a leg. "You bet your ass I am. Think I'll go catch up to Dad or something, who hasn't _brainwashed_ me, Christ."  
  
Sam presses the heel of his palm into his temple. Useless. Useless; his teeth are already itching out of his gums, his nails are extending out into claws. His vision goes blurry then sharpens, tints red and bright.  
  
"Sam?"  
  
There's something wrong with it, his wolf, something new in its racing thoughts. It feels exactly like it did when Sam popped his knot—uncontrollable and frenzied, a frightening base wildness that leaves nothing else.  
  
"'s gonna hurt you Dean," Sam says with his mouthful of teeth. There's no hope for it. It's time. "Just don't—don't fight it."  
  
"Sam!"  
  
Sam's body goes cool as his wolf trickles out, then bursts through the dam in his mind, exploding him into action. He's got Dean by his shirt in no time, overpowering him onto the floor, Dean yelling and scrambling at him, gnashing his teeth.  
  
"Stop it," Sam hisses shortly at him, "stop it stop it."  
  
"Fuck!" Dean shouts, bucking as Sam's claws turn his shirt to tatters on the floor. " _Fuck_! Get offa me! Sam! _Sam_!"  
  
Dean's slippery like an eel from sweat, flopping like a fish that's just been introduced to cruel air. Sam tries to pull his shorts off and Dean snarls, clawing and digging at Sam's face, staining his pale claws red.  
  
"Fuck—off—you son-of-a-bitch, you fuckin' dick, get the hell _off_!" Dean rolls onto his side, which just helps his shorts roll down his hips and reveal a globe of his ass. Sam tries to pull them down further, yanks, and Dean winds back his foot and nails him in the solar plexus.  
  
Sam grunts and falls back on his ass, tries to refill his lungs with air. Dean's clambering to his feet.  
  
Sam growls hoarsely and latches a hand onto Dean's ankle and topples him again, thumping Dean down onto his stomach.  
  
Sam rushes forwards to straddle the small of his back, weight pushing the Omega into the floor. He binds a hand around the nape of Dean's neck and pinches. "You're being a bad bitch," Sam tells him as Dean reflexively relaxes. "Be a good bitch."  
  
Dean bangs his fists into the floor and screams in rage, body buzzing with it. Keeping his nape clamped, Sam maneuvers him around onto his back again; needs good access to his neck.  
  
Dean's eyes are glowing verdant, his lip lifted in a quivering snarl, revealing the length of his fangs. He trembles and seethes, "I swear to God Sam, you fuckin'—you fuckin' touch me and I'll—"  
  
Trapped by his instinctive urge to be still when held at the scruff, Dean's weakened limbs can do nothing but lift and flop uselessly at Sam, skate his feet into the floor with muscles that gain no purchase.  
  
Sam pays him no mind. He stretches out on top of his mate, the hand not scruffing Dean pulling at his shorts while he eyes the slick line of Dean's neck. He'll try the traditional spot this time—it's sure to take. Sure to take nicely.  
  
When the thin fabric splits under Sam's pulling, he takes the ruined shorts off, tosses them away. Dean's wide eyes track them, then flick back to Sam with fear splintering the glow. Omegascent thick in the air now it's not held back by Dean's underwear, Sam inhales greedily and smoothes his palm over the soft of Dean's balls and dick.  
  
"Don't," Dean says sharply, jumping up a little. "Get your fuckin' hands off me."  
  
Sam gives him a reproachful huff and buries his face in Dean's neck, smelling the salt and sweat and the cloy of Dean's unmated scent. He laves the flat of his tongue up the skin, Dean's tendons fluttering under the attention. When his mouth's just below the joint of Dean's jaw, his brother starts pulling in short panicked breaths through his nose, making soft noises of protest in his subvocals and wriggling a little under Sam.  
  
Dean knows what's gonna happen then. "Sam, don't," Dean urges. "Don't you do it. Stop. Get off."  
  
Sam pulls back to mesh his lips with Dean's, in hopes he'll stop moving; Sam doesn't want to pierce jugular instead and kill his mate.  
  
Dean shakes his head, grunting and trying to turn his face away. Sam just follows him, licks between those fat lips and meets the grille of Dean's teeth. Sam rumbles in displeasure when he cuts his tongue on Dean's fangs, and punishingly bites into the thick of his lower lip.  
  
Dean snorts in surprise pain, but only manages to bat at Sam's back with a lax hand. Sam forfeits access to Dean's mouth to just swish his tongue over his ripe lips, tasting coppery blood and the tang of sweat. He licks until they're slick with spit and swollen, then finds his way back to Dean's neck again.  
  
"I swear," Dean's saying, obviously trying to sound fierce, but it chokes out roughly in Sam's ears. "I swear if you bite me, Sam, if you do this, Dad's gonna leave your ass behind. He'll leave you here to rot."  
  
"He won't," Sam informs him, worrying Dean's skin between his teeth. "He did that; have to leave you here too."  
  
"Nuh—no, I'd—"  
  
"—be my bitch. Dad's a fucking asshole, but he's gonna understand Dean. Better than anyone. That you don't take away an Alpha's mate. Look how bad losing Mom screwed him up, that's what losing your mate does to you. You think he'll let that happen to me?"  
  
"Mom _died_ , she didn't—"  
  
"Oh Dean." Sam pulls back to study Dean's ignorant, pretty face. "It's the same damn thing. Dad knows I'd never stop looking for you. He's still looking for Mom. Been almost twenty years and he thinks finding what killed her will bring her back. Sad, right? But that's what it does to you. You'll never get it, Dean. Don't try to."  
  
Dean's silent, just staring into Sam's eyes. Sweat trickles over the hand Sam has on his nape, both from fear and the oppressive humidity. "Be good," Sam orders him. He brings his mouth back under Dean's jaw and parts his lips for his fangs, sets them against the skin.  
  
Dean jolts, shaking his head. "Sam, Sammy, don't, please don't, oh God, _stop_! Fuck! Don't!"  
  
Snarling, Sam brings his other hand up and pulls on the short strands of Dean's hair, forcing his head to the side, his neck to bare to Sam's gaze.  
  
" _Sam_!"  
  
Sam lines up, opens his mouth wide, and his fangs sink into Dean's skin like knives through butter. Dean screams gutturally, hips lurching to try and buck Sam off, hands hitting Sam's back and sliding in the sweat there, and it's taking, it's _taking_ —Sam can feel the exact moment their wolves' frayed ends snap out and tangle around each other's, holding tight and secure, meant to last a whole lifetime.  
  
It feels so good to finally be completed Sam's eyes turn back in his head and he's suddenly on the edge. When Dean bucks up weakly again he hurtles over, pulling his teeth out to lap his tongue against the punctures as he comes hard and fast in his shorts.  
  
He unscruffs Dean to drag his claws down his sides, grip the crest of his ribs. He moves his head up to press and rub his cheek on Dean's, the stubble there burning his smooth skin as he marks him with his scent. Not that he needs to. Dean's scent is already changing to reflect Sam's Mark—it turns thicker and headier, vanilla and cedar pushing into his lungs.  
  
Sam groans and lifts a hand to trace the wound under Dean's jaw. It's not knitting up, of course. The fall of blood over his fingertips is a welcome sensation, makes Sam feel too big for his skin with utter exuberance. It'll heal—scab and scar into a permanent hickie, and everyone will be able to see it, will know.  
  
"Dean," Sam whispers, looking at his face. Dean looks confused and scared, betrayed. His eyelashes are clumped and wet. Sam kisses an eyebrow gently and Dean heaves in a huge, hurt breath. Even though Sam doesn't have him by the nape anymore, Dean's not moving; he lies still and tense.  
  
How he can be so passive while their bond sings, Sam doesn't know how or why. He kisses Dean's lax lips, tongue pushing in through the open space between his teeth. Sam runs his tongue over the roof of Dean's mouth, his gums, curves it around Dean's canines and shoves at Dean's own tongue, trying to get a response. But it lies as static as the rest of him.  
  
"My bitch," Sam says fondly when he breaks the kiss. He's getting hard all over again just smelling their combined scents, lets it intoxicate him. He leans up to jerk his shorts off, and after the sticky fabric is gone he touches Dean's cock again, folding his hand around the limp organ and squeezing.  
  
The muscles in Dean's thigh shift and twitch, and his belly flexes in. "Stop it," he whispers, then more urgent and loud, " _stop it_." He struggles up, then crawls back on his hands.  
  
"Dean," Sam chuffs, reaching for him again.  
  
A growl rips out of Dean and pain rips through Sam's face as Dean's foot breaks his nose. "Fuck!" Sam roars, clutching his face, trying to keep his eyes slitted open to keep Dean in sight. Dean's scrambling back, then grabbing the nightstand to help him to his feet.  
  
Boiling with rage and pain, Sam clumsily stands up himself and manages to blink tears away to see properly.  
  
The air shifts as Dean stumbles past him. He's moving slow, but Sam feels slower, like he's swimming in cement because it's so fucking hard to think past the agony centered in his face. But he manages to get his legs working, steps in front of Dean and halts his progress.  
  
He grabs his brother by his throat and throws them forwards into the wall.  
  
Dean furiously tries to wriggle out of his hold, scratching and trying to lower his chin enough to bite Sam's wrist.  
  
"You fuckin' bitch," Sam hisses at him, yanking him from the wall only to slam him back into it. Dean's red face is edging into purple, lips bluing and blood vessels branching in his eyes, Christmas green and Christmas red. The longer Sam chokes him the more sound he makes, gives up on trying to bite Sam to instead mouth words, probably _Sammy_ , or _stop_ or _please_ , and Sam's so goddamn tired of it.  
  
Dean needs to submit.  
  
The smashed bone of Sam's nose is starting to knit, and when the pain starts easing he eases his grip on Dean's throat. Dean coughs in grateful air, collapsing forward. Sam catches him, the hand that was holding his nose leaving bloody fingerprints on Dean's shoulder. Dean pushes at him even as he's still taking back his lost air, both of them sweating so much in the heat that each time Dean's hand hits him it stirs up a mist.  
  
Sam propels him back into the wall and presses his forearm across Dean's collarbones, keeping him pinned as his other hand, the blood-stained one, goes between Dean's legs.  
  
"No," Dean says, voice wrecked, trying to wriggle away but he's tired, Sam can tell—he blinks too slow, pushes too soft, the Omega in him probably the reason; wants to submit to its mate, wants to stop fighting.  
  
"Don't fight, Dean," Sam whispers, running his fingers down the plump of Dean's balls and further back, until the line of Dean's perineum gives way to the puckered furrow of his entrance.  
  
Dean blanches, lets out a rough sound that might be a sob. "Stop," he says, lisping with his fangs, _sssthop_. Sam chuckles a little, sucking a kiss from Dean's mouth. Dean claws at him once more, digs into Sam's shoulders and rakes viciously, but Sam can take the pain; it's a bee-sting compared to the agony of Dean breaking his nose.  
  
Sam experimentally pushes his finger in up to the first knuckle, and feels a weird sort of anger overtake him when he realizes Dean's dry as a desert; just hot, clinging constriction around his finger. He should be wet, dripping for Sam's cock, leaking onto the floor.  
  
Dean's dick is still unresponsive too—not that it matters to Sam—but the fact that Dean's body seems to be fighting him every step of the way and not giving in like it's supposed to makes his blood turn hotter than the air around them.  
  
"Fuck," he grits. He rips his finger out with a gasp from Dean. He can't care—he has to fuck his mate right now, and Dean'll heal anyway. He takes his forearm off Dean and holds him against the wall with his body instead, grabbing under one of Dean's knees and lifting it. Dean wobbles, but curls his leg around the low of Sam's waist, instinctive more than anything but even still, it's a step in the right direction.  
  
Sam licks up the blood from Dean's neck, which has fallen down his skin like overflowing cherry candlewax from his Mark. He shuffles his hips in tight, bumping his erection into Dean's balls. The smell of saline pricks his nose and he looks at Dean's face to see Dean's staring back at him imploringly, tears dripping from the corners of his eyes and sliding around his nose.  
  
Dean inhales shakily and reaches up, spreading his cool hands over Sam's face and hair. "Sammy."  
  
Sam stares back, unsure of Dean's intent. "Dean," he returns, as the head of his cock tries to line up properly.  
  
"Sam— _my_ ," Dean enunciates, gripping his head harder and shaking it a little. "Sam, wake up."  
  
Sam's pretty sure he is awake.  
  
"C'mon Sam, take back control. Don't let it win. We can still. We can still fix this Sam but you need to get a hold of yourself."  
  
"I am."  
  
"Sammy, please." Dean's voice breaks and becomes smoker-hoarse, "please don't do this to me, Sammy. I'm your brother, I'm _Dean_."  
  
"Mate," Sam's wolf acknowledges, leaning in to lick the salt from Dean's cheeks. He closes his eyes when he feels the head of his cock catch on Dean's rim. Dean starts trembling against him, violently buzzing in his skin so Sam kisses him, threads his arm under his knee and lifts his leg up a little higher so it's easier.  
  
Dean's claws start piercing his scalp. Since he's mostly supported by Sam anyway, he doesn't fall over when Sam grabs him by the scruff once more—he goes limp with a guttural cry of rage, hands falling away. It has the added bonus of relaxing Dean's muscles enough that the head of Sam's cock finally breaks through the bands of muscles in his ass, and he's in, so suddenly Sam's floored for a moment.  
  
Dean scream-snarls, eyes squeezing shut, teeth clenching. His face looks like it's trying to shift—ears pulling up, skin getting taut, cheekbones hollowing out—but the process snaps back when Sam shoves in further, squeezes his nape vise-tight.  
  
And fuck, Jesus, Dean's body is so _hot_ inside, makes the room feel cold in comparison. Hot and almost painfully tight and sucking him in further because it's where Sam fucking belongs and Dean's body knows it. "Dean," he says, exultant, eyes wide and shocked. It's pure pleasure in every way—in his body, in his head, where their bond fills up his mind with light.  
  
Sam thinks he could just fall apart and die from how good it is.  
  
Pure instinct has him pulling out again, but not too much, because Dean's body is the home he never wants to leave. Dean groans deeply, the crook of his knee clamping around the crook of Sam's elbow, breathing harshly through his nose when Sam lets Dean's body grab and pull him back in like a hungry mouth.  
  
Sam's wolf wants to come out fully, but it's lost in the light. Besides, Sam likes it this way—human body inside another human body, forebrain steering things so he doesn't get lost in the animal instinct to just rut and come as quickly as possible. Like this he can truly enjoy the mating to its fullest extent.  
  
He closes his eyes and kisses Dean, filling the warmwetsoft of his mouth with his tongue as he moves his hips in short thrusts. In his position, Dean can do nothing but take it, take whatever Sam wants to give him.  
  
They slip against each other, sweat pouring off them both, salting the air. It stings Sam's eyes, makes his hair stick to his face, makes Dean eventually scrabble for his shoulders to hang on when the one foot he has on the floor slips and he falls a little. Sam lets his neck go and gets his arm under that leg, grunts as he hoists Dean up the wall, resettling his feet to keep his balance.  
  
His back muscles groan at him, Dean growls at him, the floor creaks. Sam gasps into Dean's throat as he fucks him, mates with him, claims and owns him. Dean's arms are around his shoulders for support and on the hardest thrusts he scratches Sam, but he's mostly helpless in Sam's hold.  
  
Sam catches a drop of sweat as it rolls down Dean's neck, makes a game of it to lick the beads up before they can roll out of his mouth's reach.  
  
When he tastes copper instead of salt, he traces the taste to Dean's Mark and rolls his tongue over the pierced flesh.  
  
There's a strange sense of things getting thinner, their bond growing very short until Sam feels what could only be Dean's wolf lashing into his mind. He gets a flash of _hurtpainnostopnoSam_ before he reflexively slams up walls and jerks away, unsettled.  
  
His own wolf roils, keening in his brain. It's caught between the need to assert its claim and the need to stop everything to calm Dean down.  
  
But Sam's knot is swelling, and the show must go on. He presses a kiss beside Dean's nose and breathes hot on his skin as he feels the base of his cock explode with unbearable sensation. He thrusts to the hilt to try and relieve the ache, mouth dropping open; it feels unbelievably good, but rankling because suddenly he _can't get deep enough_.  
  
He ruts off-rhythm, choking on his own breath. He shoves Dean hard into the wall, arms shaking with the effort of holding him up even though he's incapable of letting him drop. Dean pants along with him as Sam's knot swells inside him, fast fast fast.  
  
And Dean, Dean ties with him so good and easy; internal muscles locking down around his knot when it's swollen to its full size. Dean looks confused by it, uncomfortable and betrayed by his body just doing what it's meant to. But he's so perfect.  
  
"Good bitch, Dean, you're so good for me, gettin' us stuck. You're such a good bitch, you're such a..." Sam mashes his face into Dean's shoulder and sobs, growls, and roars when he comes, exploding with light. It's so good it's unbearable, painful and he wants it to stop and he wants it to never end. His eyes turn up into his head and he lifts up onto the balls of his feet to try and get that much deeper into his mate, spray his come that much further inside.  
  
When his cock is still spurting but the wash of white has abated, Sam opens his eyes. There's the instinct to remain very still, but his arm and back muscles are cramping and trembling with the effort to keep Dean's legs up. He gathers Dean and lifts him away from the wall, walks backwards until he feels the softness of a bed hit the backs of his knees. He lets himself fall back.  
  
Dean makes a strange sound as the knot tugs when he lands in Sam's lap, then his torso falls forward onto Sam's like his strings have been cut all at once.  
  
"Baby," Sam whispers, running his hands down Dean's sweat-soaked sides, his hips, palming at his ass. His dick pulses again and Sam's hips jolt up with the feeling, making Dean gasp. Curious, Sam's hand leaves his ass to worm under his hips and feel for—  
  
"Dean," Sam groans when his hand is filled with Dean's hard cock. He squeezes and strokes it. Dean shakes his head, saying, "no," into Sam's neck, tensing.  
  
With a grunt, Sam changes their positions and rolls Dean underneath him so he can watch his face. It's pinched; eyes held shut and lips folded in over his fangs as Sam pulls at his cock. Judging by the pre-come bubbling from the head, Dean's already close to coming and fuck, Sam needs to see that like he needs air in his lungs.  
  
Dean shifts restlessly, twisting his torso. His hands are clenched into fists, blood spilling from in between his knuckles as his claws pierce. His feet find purchase on the bed and he tries to move back—doesn't get anywhere.  
  
Sam hisses at the pull around his knot, grabs Dean's hip to keep him still while he considers Dean's cock in his hand. It's pretty; pale and topped with shy pink, big by Omega standards. Sam squeezes down around the base, where it's thicker and the skin is taut, feels a little thrill at how different Dean's dick is than his in this area; no relaxed skin for a knot to stretch into because Dean doesn't have one, just pretty knotless Omega-dick for Sam to manipulate.  
  
"Ah," Dean hoarses, hips canting a little into Sam's touch. His stomach sucks in, then he's coming, spurting out arcs of white that land back on his chest. His hole nearly crushes Sam's knot it clamps down so hard. Sam strokes his cock until Dean's baring his teeth from over-stimulation, hips trying to shove down away from Sam's hand.  
  
Sam lets him go reluctantly. He sighs deeply in satisfaction, feeling warm and weak and happy. He bends his back to lick up Dean's come, making sure to slide his tongue over the pink drops of Dean's nipples as well. He lets himself fall in, spreading out on top of Dean so he can relax, kiss Dean's lips and Dean's chin and Dean's freckles.  
  
Dean says nothing, just breathes softly, eyes half-open and no longer glowing, canines pulled back into his gums. Sam hesitantly lets his tongue rest over the scabbing Mark and pulls his walls down as things get thin again. He gets the impression of Dean's wolf sitting, back turned and head bowed, a form of tawny fur set against black.  
  
Sam extends his consciousness to brush over Dean's in the ultimate gesture of intimacy, shivering at the feel; like two exposed nerves.  
  
Things wobble and go rage-red. Dean's wolf disappears into the pour of color, leaving Sam feeling like there's no ground beneath him. He falls and jerks back into reality, disoriented and stomach in scared tangles. It's exactly like the times he's been falling asleep and suddenly felt like he was tipping off the world's edge and kicked out to save himself.  
  
Sam's wolf whines for Dean's wolf, even when Sam's taken his mouth off the Mark. It roils and feels too big for Sam's skull, thinking _DeanDeanmatewherewrongwrongcomeback_.  
  
Sam stares down into Dean's unfocused eyes, trepidation turning his guts to ice. "Dean?" _DEAN_.  
  
Dean does nothing but blink. Sam wrests full-control back to his forebrain; he doesn't want his wolf's encompassing panic to take him over.  
  
He reaches up and cups his brother's cheek. "Dean?"  
  
There's a click near his ear. "Sam, you get off your brother right now or I will pull this fucking trigger on your ass."  
  
Sam freezes up. At the same time he hunkers over Dean; primal urge to keep him from being taken away by another Alpha. He turns his head, lip twitching in a mean snarl.  
  
"This ain't rock salt, boy," Dad says, dark eyes flashing scarlet down at Sam. "Move it." He nudges the end of the double-barreled shotgun by Sam's ear. It's frighteningly cold on his heated skin. " _Now_."  
  
"I can't," Sam tells him calmly. His voice sounds entirely too light. "See?" He pulls his hips back and Dean goes with, tagged. Dean makes a hurt sound behind the cover of Sam's arm. Sam looks challengingly up at his father, feeling triumphant, embarrassed, and like if he wasn't tied right now he'd be ripping Dad's throat out, no questions, shotgun be damned.  
  
Dad smacks the gun against his cheek. "Stop it," he growls, and Sam settles back into Dean with a tiny smile.  
  
"Leave us alone," Sam says, deep in his vocal chords, Alpha-to-Alpha. "Dean's mine now." _I'll kill you I'll kill you I'll kill you_.  
  
Not breaking eye-contact, Sam reaches out his right arm and snags the edge of the covers, sweeps them over himself and Dean, tucks them around Dean's head to put him completely out of view. Dean's gone so silent if it wasn't for the thud of his heartbeat Sam would think he's dead.  
  
It's Dad, amazingly, who looks away. "Your ass is front and center soon as you can get outta bed." He lowers the shotgun. Sam notices for the first time he doesn't smell angry, and watches him closely when he exits the room, curious.  
  
Dad slams the door though, which makes Dean start beneath Sam's body. It's stifling under the covers, so Sam throws them away as quickly as possible. Dean's eyes are closed and his face is turned away, ears bright red.  
  
"It's okay Dean," Sam says, going down to his forearms so he can touch Dean's cheek. "Dad just knows you're mine now. And that's a good thing. Maybe I won't have to kill him... long as he stays the hell away from you."  
  
Sam taps his thumb on Dean's freckles then rubs under his eyebrow, his eye. "Dean." He turns Dean's face back to him, pulls up one of Dean's eyelids.  
  
Dean snorts out a harsh breath and moves his face away. "Don't touch me," he rasps. "Don't fuckin' touch me."  
  
"I'm—"  
  
"Get—" Dean's throat clicks. Sam feels his legs move and then heels digging into his hips. "Get outta me. Get _out_."  
  
"Dean, Dean!" Sam scrabbles back to try and stop Dean from pushing. "Dean, I can't! Stop it!" Doesn't Dean fucking know he's tying Sam right back? " _Stop it, Dean_!" His voice cracks the air, makes the damn atoms quiver.  
  
Dean stops, eyes going wide. His legs move back to their original position of being slung over Sam's thighs. He trembles under Sam, color gone from his face. He looks terrified, like prey in predator sight.  
  
Must've been Sam's voice. Alpha Voice, and Sam's not sure how to work the dial yet, so... "Dean," he says as softly as possible, nose stinging with the fearscent coming from his brother. He cups Dean's face. "'s all right." He doesn't think Dean's ever had Alpha Voice used on him before; he can't remember Dad ever ripping it out.  
  
Under his touch, Dean seems to regain his composure. He blinks and licks his lips, sighs stiltedly. When he closes his eyes again and looks away and the smell of saline pricks the air, Sam doesn't bother him.  
  
He lays his head down next to Dean's and closes his eyes and waits.  
  


***

  
  
"Where's your brother?" Dad asks when Sam comes out of the room, dressed. It's getting late in the afternoon, cooler. Dad's sprawled out on the stuffing-coming-out-of-it-in-places couch, on his second bottle of beer.  
  
"Sleeping," Sam says. If laying there with your eyes closed could be called sleeping. Sam goes into the cramped kitchen and takes a cursory look in the fridge, wondering if Dean's hungry.  
  
"I guess you weren't lyin'."  
  
"Lying about what?"  
  
"Dean. Two of you bein'..." Dad twists his hand in the air. "God knows why, though. How the hell does that happen?"  
  
Sam steps over by the couch warily, wolf simmering close to the surface. Dad sounds calm, smells calm, but Sam's expecting the bottle he's nursing to be heaved at his head any second now.  
  
"I know how it is, Sam. Day I met your mother..." Dad shakes his head. He looks at Sam, "just can't be helped, can it?"  
  
"No it can't," Sam says, and before he can stop it, he adds, "sir."  
  
"And Dean." Dad looks at his bottle and thumbs around the edge. "He show you that picture he's got of him and Mary?"  
  
"A few times," Sam says. He parts the curtain and looks through the window. Mr. McBride is out on his front porch, packing a lip with his face pinched in and looking around his property like a vulture. Beyond his house, there's a few others, then long stretches of dirt, a few trees, no rise of a good wooded area.  
  
Sam puts his face against the glass to look in the driveway, at the Impala.  
  
"Pictures really don't do it justice; how much he looks like her," Dad says.  
  
Sam turns around, needled with confusion. "What're you saying?"  
  
Dad's eyes meet his, dark and deep under his brows. "I'm sayin' I understand."  
  
Sam doesn't think Dad does. Dad's never fallen in as deep as Sam has. He's never had his wolf and his self so tangled up he couldn't differentiate; never had the righteous beast in Sam's mind beating at his skull, bleeding dark thoughts into his brain.  
  
"S'pose you're not going to finish high school."  
  
The words, if they'd been said before Sam popped his knot, would've made him cringe; there would've been no concept of pissing away a future as a lawyer, of having a normal life. But now, none of that matters—his world has shrunken down to Dean-size; all Sam wants now is a life with him.  
  
And he's going to get it, one way or the other.


	3. Part III

Things go sour quick.  
  
Under the radar, Dad buys Dean some sort of black market pills that Sam finds Dean throwing back in the bathroom. He doesn't have to guess what their use is, and the rage that explodes in his head threatens to burst his blood vessels.  
  
Sam snatches the bottle from Dean and upends it into the toilet, smirking as he watches the tiny orange-y pills start disintegrating.  
  
"These are why you haven't gone into heat, aren't they?" Sam asks, Dean's wrist held tight in his hand as they watch the beautiful destruction of the pills turn the toilet water powdery orange.  
  
Dean says nothing. Neither Sam or Dad's had much luck getting him to talk beyond what's necessary, beyond sighs and nods.  
  
"That shit isn't good for you Dean; that's why it's illegal," Sam tells him, then clenches his teeth, "I can't believe that bastard."  
  
He flushes the toilet and carts Dean over to the sink. "How many did you take today?"  
  
Dean shifts his shoulders, sighing. In the mirror, his eyes get caught on their reflections. Noticing, Sam steps behind him and pulls him back into his chest, satisfaction warming his blood as he looks at them together.  
  
In the weeks since mating Dean, Sam's gotten a voracious appetite, gotten bigger. There's natural Alpha muscle packed onto his shoulders and arms now, and his ribs don't show through his skin any more. His face has changed subtly—last little bit of fat melting away, and he's finally started needing to shave.  
  
Sam thinks they both look perfect as mates; complementary to each other, as it should be. "You know," Sam says, chin resting on Dean's shoulder. "We don't look like brothers do we? Never have. 'Cause we weren't meant to be. God made you, then he made me—made me perfect for you."  
  
Sam looks down to where his hands are clasped over Dean's stomach. The thought that someday soon it won't be so flat, will house perfect little mixtures of SamDean inside, is enough to make Sam shiver down to his toes.  
  
Dean just needs to come into season.  
  
"Open your mouth, Dean," Sam goads, "we gotta get those pills outta you."  
  
Dean parts his lips, still looking at their mirror-selves plainly.  
  
"Good," Sam praises. He then sticks two fingers in Dean's mouth, far, far, and wiggles them around Dean's tonsils. Dean retches and Sam tips him over the sink by the back of his neck. He turns the faucet on to wash away what Dean pukes up: mostly brown frothy stuff Sam recognizes as the coke he drank earlier. The whiter froth is orange-tinted, which makes Sam smile.  
  
Dean groans and straightens to spit several times, eyes red and wet. "'s okay Dean," Sam soothes, taking a palmful of water and washing off Dean's lips and chin. "Had to do that. But last time, I swear. Dad tries to give you anything else, just say no, okay?"  
  
"Sammy," Dean croaks. His voice sounds wrecked and ripped apart. Sam turns off the faucet slowly, grabs a small towel and wipes Dean's face and neck down. He turns his brother around to face him, looking into his eyes. They seem more alive, not so dull right now, like Dean might be able to respond to what Sam's saying.  
  
"Dean," Sam starts. He smoothes his thumb around the pretty pink Mark on Dean's neck and smiles. "Dean, what do you think about us gettin' outta here?"  
  
Dean's eyebrows raise a little.  
  
"I mean just going native. Get away from Dad, start our own pack. It'll just be me and you. And pups, when you have them. How's that sound?"  
  
Dean's lips tighten and he shakes his head. Looking pained, he lurches away and out of the bathroom.  
  
Sam follows him. "C'mon Dean, just think about it. It's kinda our only option at this point. Two Alphas under the same roof..." Technically not under the same roof anymore, since Dad's ordained to start buying a separate room for the two of them, but it still rankles.  
  
"I've been thinking about it," Sam continues while Dean sits on the bed, looking at nothing. "Ever since I popped it. But the pills kinda sealed it for me. You gotta know Dean, he's got no fuckin' right to give you those. It wasn't right." Sam closes his eyes as his wolf stirs, wants to tear and rend. "Either we get out, or, things get worse, something's gonna happen."  
  
Dean shakes his head, fists curling in his lap. When Sam pulls him up from the bed, Dean shrugs him off violently, nearly crashes into the nightstand.  
  
Sam sighs and snatches his wrist, pulls him over to the door like a recalcitrant kid.  
  
Cloudy Oregon weather breezes over their skin and Dean shivers. Sam wraps an arm around his shoulders, points past the parking lot, at the trees cutting the sky only miles away. "See? Right in there. That's where we could have a life. And when it gets real cold, we'll have our own den to stay inside. When you go into heat, we can just fuck all day and night and nobody'll bother us."  
  
"No," Dean says, so harshly spittle sprays the air. He moves out from under Sam's shoulder, but Sam catches him around the waist and propels him into the space of wall between their room and the next door over.  
  
"Yeah," Sam says, breathing in the air Dean exhales. He kisses Dean's snarling lips, says against them, "soon as you have your heat, we're getting outta here. If that's into those woods over there, or taking your car and driving till we're in fucking _Canada_ , it's gonna happen."  
  
Sam slides his hand across Dean's hip and cups his crotch, palming at his dick. Dean closes his eyes, eyebrows still drawn tight in anger. "Don't," he whispers, airy on Sam's lips. But Dean's scent sharpens, softens all at the same time, pheromones wafting from his scent glands under his ears, across his cheeks, in the webbing of his fingers, all meant to call to Sam and entice.  
  
Sam sticks his nose under his Mark and inhales, trying to pick out any differences, anything that might tell him if Dean'll be in season soon. Unfortunately, there's just that damn chemical, plastic scent from the pills.  
  
Sam could kill Dad right now.  
  
But his urge to murder is less than his urge to fuck, so Sam hustles Dean back into their room, lays him out on the bed.  
  
Dean, naked and bathed in warm light from the nightstand lamp, stares at him when Sam pulls a squeeze-tube of Astroglide from under the pillow. "Got this," Sam tells him, sitting back on his haunches between Dean's legs, "since you're not getting wet. Should make things easier."  
  
Sam snicks open the lid and squeezes out a big dollop of the thick cold stuff onto his fingers. "Course, when you go into heat I don't think we'll have a problem anymore. Have you seen those porn flicks where the Omega's in heat? What's that one with the ah, the mechanic and his mate who fuck in the shop?"  
  
" _Heat Meets Meat 4_ ," Dean supplies, then screws his face up. Sam laughs, dropping the tube behind him and moving in a little to nudge Dean's thigh away from the other. "You watch those? Couldn't get by on watching Beta girls fuck, huh? Did you imagine that was you, gettin' bent over a car 'cause he was so desperate for it? Dripping all over the place till he got a knot stuck in him?"  
  
Dean shakes his head, mouths _no_. He jumps when Sam touches his rim with his lube-slicked fingers. Sam shushes him, rubbing around Dean's hole to warm up the lube, before he lets his middle finger dab inside. He swirls the digit, purposely stimulating the ridges of muscles just inside the hole, the muscles that Dean locks around his knot to tie them tight.  
  
Dean clamps down hard reflexively and fists his hands into the blanket, throwing his head back and wheezing. His cock starts rising just like that, and Sam grins. He rubs his knuckle over the ridges again, knuckle _s_ , when he pushes his index finger in as well.  
  
"Don't, Sam," Dean gasps. He's already broken a sweat, and each time Sam touches those special bands of muscle, his feet slide uselessly on the bed and his hips tilt up, push down clumsily, like he doesn't know what to do. "Stop it."  
  
Sam does, only because Dean's gonna be too tight to fuck if he keeps tricking Dean's hole into trying to tie around his fingers. Lube blissfully easing the way, Sam glides his fingers into the mounts of his knuckles, curls them up until he can feel the smooth raise of Dean's prostate.  
  
Dean groans, chokes it off at the end. Sam grabs and strokes his pretty cock with his other hand, feels it twitch whenever Sam presses on the spot inside him. He really wants to make Dean come like this, but his own cock's nagging him.  
  
Dean bites his lip when Sam removes his fingers from his ass, off his cock. Sam coats himself with the last remnants of lube he finds between his fingers, then grabs under Dean's knees and bends them towards his chest as he shuffles forward and lines up.  
  
Dean grunts at being bent in half, grunts again when Sam feeds him half his cock all at once.  
  
Sam's mouth drops open and he hangs his head. "Fuckin' so much better," he breathes. "Damn."  
  
It's a nice slipslide the rest of the way in, easy as anything. Hot, wet and warm; being in Dean's like sinking into a nice bath, holding his breath and ducking his head under the water where there's no sound.  
  
Sam has to let Dean's knees go because suddenly he's too weak, but Dean's good, folds his legs around Sam's back instead when Sam falls forward onto his hands. Sam looks down at Dean with eyes that are trying to flutter closed. He keeps them open only to take in Dean's expression—the absence of pain on his face as Sam thrusts deep; now Dean's lips are parted, his eyebrows only drawn in pleasure, only gets tight around the eyes when Sam's cock passes over his sweet spot.  
  
When Sam slips a little out of himself and his wolf—with no concept of artificial lubricant—thinks it's his mate's slick making this so fantastic, Sam's knot swells up just like that. The very same bands of muscle he had stroked earlier ripple around his knot, then constrict so forceful and crushing Sam falls down on Dean and chokes, claws at the sheets and Dean and comes so hard it feels yanked out of him by a cruel hook.  
  
He snarls nonsensical harsh things, which bleed off into, "good bitch, so _good_ , Dean," when the wild pleasure starts dialing down and endorphins start filling his brain. He kisses Dean sloppily, then slides the side of his face across his mate's, worms his arm between their bodies to feel for Dean's cock.  
  
He runs into the sticky hot mess on his stomach first, and feels like exploding all over again when he realizes Dean's come already. He gets it all over his hand and sucks Dean's come off his thumb, gives no thought to smearing the rest on Dean's face.  
  
Dean grimaces, turning his head away. Sam takes a second to admire how Dean looks with come on his eyebrows and cheeks, drizzled like sugary glaze over strawberry lips, before he starts cleaning Dean up with his tongue. Long, rough licks, like a wolf cleans his pup.  
  
Dean protests and thumps at his shoulders, but Sam's persistent—doesn't stop till he's licked the last drop of come from the arch of a brow. He laves down Dean's cheek, stubble burning his tongue, then licks into Dean's mouth.  
  
Dean's protest of the kiss is nothing but a sigh.

***

  
  
Turns out there's plenty of scary shit in Oregon. After Dad finishes the hunt that brought them here, he's found grounds for three more along the way. They switch motels, but not States, and sometimes Sam'll shift and race out through the trees. Dad and Dean probably assume he's just blowing off steam, but he's really looking around, checking out. It's hard to judge what Dean would prefer without him being there however, so in Tigard, in the late afternoon after him and Dean have gone through two large pizzas and eaten probably fifty breadsticks between them, the question is pricking the back of Sam's throat.  
  
He finishes off his third glass of Pepsi and smiles at his brother, whose eyes are wide at the boxes between them. "Told you I could. Still got room for more too."  
  
Dean, who's always been the champion at anything fast and greasy, looks a little pale at the idea.  
  
"'m serious, I could eat a whole _stag_. I must be having another growth spurt."  
  
"We're gonna have to start putting in special orders for your clothes," Dean jokes. He's more liable to talk in situations like this—where they're doing light things and saying light things, playing out the echoes of the brothers they used to be.  
  
All it would take to burst the bubble is Sam reaching across the tiny table for Dean's hand. Dean would go stiff then, and whatever humor dancing in his eyes and jumping from his lips would stop.  
  
But Sam just smiles at him, a little praising smile that he hopes encourages Dean to keep talking, and asks, "you wanna go for a run with me? You haven't let your wolf out in a long time."  
  
Dean, probably in a bid to be more like Dad, hasn't had four paws on the ground in a while. Last time they were in full shift together it was the 4th of July in a field in the middle of nowhere, and they held sparklers in their teeth and chased each other with the smell of gunpowder in the air.  
  
That's still one of Sam's best memories.  
  
"I don't think that's a good idea," Dean says. There's something edgy and tumultuous in his face. He leans back in his chair and rubs his eyes. "It's ah... I can't let it come out."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
Dean shakes his head.  
  
Sam grips the table and leans forward. "Did Dad tell you that?" he hisses, scouring the wood with his claws.  
  
"No," Dean says quickly, a little too fast maybe; makes Sam bristle. Dean drops his hand and meets Sam's eyes. "Look, I let the wolf outta the bag, we won't make it out of this room."  
  
Sam settles back, mouthing Dean's words to himself, looking at Dean's hard expression. "You mean—"  
  
Dean closes his eyes. "You know when you, you uh, lick the bite, and I can feel you in my head, what always pushes you out is my wolf." Dean smiles humorlessly. "You don't know hard it is everyday, holding all that back. That's why I get..." he trails off and looks down at his lap.  
  
"But we're mates Dean, through and through. Your wolf submitted," Sam reminds him, "to me."  
  
Dean chuckles. "I think it submitted more to _me_." He looks up at Sam, swallowing hard. "What you did Sam, you forced something on me too quick. Now I'm kinda messed up. And you, you're pretty messed up too."  
  
And Sam is, probably, but he says, "c'mon Dean, no I'm not," anyway.  
  
"Yes you are," Dean says, eyes getting wet as he looks at him with such despair Sam flicks his eyes away. "You don't even realize it, Sammy. But see, I remember what you used to be like. When you were my brother. When you cared."  
  
"I do care," Sam says tightly, "don't say I don't care, I _do_."  
  
Dean trembles a second, then growls and slams his fist on the table. "How do you care? How do you fuckin' _care_ about me now, huh? You don't give two shits about me. I'm just a warm body for you to fuck." Dean's eyes start lighting up, visage growing mean and animalistic before he turns his face and takes short, furious breaths through his nose.  
  
Sam watches him trying to contain his wolf, his own ambivalent animal peeking out through his eyes. The human part of Sam is not unaffected, so he reaches across the table and takes a hold of Dean's wrist. "Dean, you're my _mate_. You're the most important thing in my life, and you always have been. And I'm _your_ mate, Dean, even if part of you won't recognize it."  
  
But Dean just shakes his head. When he's pushed his wolf back, he looks at Sam and slides his wrist out from his hold, only to wrap his fingers around Sam's instead. "Sam," Dean says, clasping tight, eyes darting between his like Sam's lost and Dean's trying to find him, "if you still care an _ounce_ , get rid of the bond."  
  
Sam lurches back, snapping his wrist away. "What!?"  
  
"You can cut it off from your end," Dean continues, speaking fast, "I've read about it."  
  
"In newspapers," Sam spits, "about Alphas who went insane after and jumped off a bridge. About Omegas who drowned their kids then slit their wrists." Sam shakes and digs his claws into his scalp, feeling like he's gonna puke.  
  
He gets up and just tries to breathe through the revulsion as his wolf gets too big for his head. Bondbreaking's the most vile thing he can think of doing. From the very few cases that exist, it was done out of spite and unhinged rage and ended horrifying every time for both.  
  
Bonds are meant for eternity, the most permanent form of marriage—rich or poor, sickness or health, the bond's meant to withstand all that.  
  
Sam thinks about viciously sawing away at the brand new, pure bond between himself and Dean and the world tips over. He falls against the wall, feels his bones starting to twist and realign.  
  
"Sam!"  
  
Sensing his mate in front of him, Sam latches onto him and pulls off the wall to shove Dean into it, cracking plaster from the force. "Don't you ever, _ever_ say that again!"  
  
His distorted voice splits the air like lightning, bouncing off the walls, the floor. It splinters the wall clock above them and causes a mist of glass to fall on their hair like glitter.  
  
Dean locks up, shaking rabbit-like. Fearscent burns Sam's nostrils, chafes his senses. Sam sticks his nose over his Mark, inhaling the better smell of their mateship and using it to calm down, grounds himself because their bond is still intact and beautiful and Sam would roll around in wolfsbane sooner than he'd ruin the delicate white thread between them.  
  
The bones in his face click back into their human shape, fur receding back into his skin. "No," he says to Dean, right into his ear, right into the part of him that refuses to acknowledge Sam as his mate. "You're mine."  
  
Dean says nothing. He's gone quiet again. When Sam looks at him, he finds Dean's eyes pinned to their shoes, Dean's face smoothed into familiar, marble-hard passiveness.  
  
He's shelled up again, and maybe that's better, if it hides away the raging animal within him. If he doesn't protest Sam's touch, Sam's Mark, their bond.  
  
Sam can pretend.


	4. Part IV

Sam wakes up to gasps and pants and wet sheets and a smell in the air that could make him just cream right in his pajama pants. He slaps at the lamp until it pours some light on the bed, on Dean, who's on top of the covers and writhing, torso pouring sweat.  
  
Sam can't believe it's actually happening, tonight. For a few moments he stays still, greedy eyes taking in Dean—the tiny, needy gasps puffing from his lips, the fists and feet pulling at the sheets, legs spread and hips hooking at the air. He's still got his sweats on, but Sam can smell how _wet_ he is, can picture it leaking through.  
  
Dean's slitted-open eyes catch on him. He reaches up and grabs ineffectually at Sam, groaning. "Sam, Sam, 'm on _fire_. Oh God Sammy, what's, what's going on?"  
  
Sam strokes his chest, pinches a hard nipple. Dean arches with a plaintive wail. "Your body's ready to have my baby," he tells Dean, whose eyes open wide, black swallowing green.  
  
Sam runs his hands down Dean's sides, brings them in over his stomach. His tongue's lolling out of his mouth; he's pretty sure the circuitry in his brain's fizzing. "Ready for me to put a litter in you."  
  
Sam's wolf is so excited Sam can picture it rolling around, tail whipping furiously, too overwhelmed to even try and take control yet.  
  
"Sammy," Dean whimpers, stretching his arms above his head, burrowing them under the pillows. His nipples and lips are swollen and cherry-red, and Sam can't resist bending down to lick a swath between the two. He nearly floats away when he fills Dean's mouth with his tongue and Dean responds eagerly, makes a desperate sound and sucks on the muscle.  
  
Sam moves on top of him, not parting their lips. He thumbs at Dean's nipples, rolling the buds against the pads of his fingers until Dean bites Sam's lip and bows up again, shoving his crotch into Sam's.  
  
Sam groans, rocking down, feels Dean's hands push into his hair. "Sam, please," Dean says into his mouth, already sounding ruined. His feet hit Sam's thighs as he scrabbles his legs up around him, caging him in. "'m so empty, I can't—I can't _stand_ it, I—"  
  
"I know," Sam soothes, fighting not to just give in to Dean's alluring scent and knot him on the bed. He kisses Dean's chin and whispers, "you gotta wait a little longer, though. Can you do that?"  
  
"No!" Dean wails, shoving his hips up into Sam's rut, rubbing their cocks together through their pants. "Need it now," he pants, "oh please, oh God, please Sammy, _please_. I'm burning up."  
  
It's absolutely mindbreaking to have Dean begging him, being so responsive and not just laying there resignedly, to hear him say he needs him. It feels almost like a dream.  
  
Sam sucks a last kiss from him and sits up. Dean stays latched on so he tumbles into Sam's lap, which makes Sam laugh and catch his lips with Dean's searching ones. He holds Dean tight and presses his lips down his chin, his throat. "Where's your keys, Dean?" he asks softly.  
  
"Keys," Dean repeats mindlessly. He shakes his head and grinds his ass over Sam's dick. "Don't care. C'mon Sam, please."  
  
Sam looks around Dean at the nightstand, looking for the sheen of metal. Not seeing it, he lets himself fall onto his back and reach his arm over the bed to feel around the floor. He laughs breathlessly when Dean just bends and licks down his throat, obviously determined to roll with the rapid switches in positions.  
  
Sam's fingers hit the coarse fabric of jeans, the flap of a pocket. Blindly, he feels inside and is rewarded when cold metal touches his fingertips. He pulls them out by the ring, enfolds them in his fist.  
  
He sits up just as Dean's tugging at his pants. With a little bit of maneuvering he manages to dump Dean on the bed and stand up. "Stay there Dean," Sam commands when his brother moves to follow him.  
  
Dean shudders at the Alpha Voice and groans long and low. "Need you to fuck me, Sammy."  
  
Sam shudders himself. "I know. I will." He finds his hoodie and throws it on, fingers barely able to zip it. "Soon as we get outta here."  
  
Dean's so far gone he merely blinks.  
  
Sam can only come up with a henley for Dean, but that's all right. The Impala's got everything they need; extra clothes, money, enough fraudulent credit cards to fill a prison cell.  
  
"Too hot, Sam," Dean whines when his head pops out of the neckhole, but he starts putting his arms in the sleeves anyway. While he's fumbling through that, Sam puts on his shoes and just tucks the laces inside.  
  
Both their wallets are on the nightstand. Sam tucks them into his hoodie pockets, then opens the door to their room and looks out into the parking lot. It's dark out, probably around three in the morning. Sam scans for Dad's truck, spots it and says, "fuck," under his breath. Dad's probably asleep, but the Impala roaring to life in the quiet night might wake him up.  
  
Sam tells himself it doesn't matter; Dad'll just think it's Dean going out to the bar or something. He leaves the door open and turns back to Dean, who's got his shirt on, at least. And his hand down his pants.  
  
Sam licks his lips at the sight of Dean's blissed out face, but makes his feet move. Dean's boots are by the door. Sam nabs them and brings them to his brother, which prompts Dean's eyes to open and his hand to quit jerking himself off.  
  
"'m gonna help you Dean," Sam says to Dean's doleful face, putting the shoes in Dean's lap. "Look, just hang onto those okay?" Dean sighs but wraps his hands around his boots.  
  
"All right. I got you." Sam straightens, turns and gets an arm under Dean's knees, banding the other around his back. He grunts as he hefts Dean up, falling back a step and nearly crashing into the end table.  
  
"Guess those new muscles are just for show," Dean murmurs in a moment of lucidity, making Sam grin. He carries Dean out in the cool air, reflexively looks back into their room, trying to remember if he left anything important behind while Dean slips back into his heat haze and wriggles in his arms.  
  
But no. Anything they forget can be replaced.  
  
He shuts the door with his shoulder, trots over to the Impala gleaming in the night. He bends his knees to be able to get the door open while still holding Dean, then sets his mate in the passenger seat. Dean sluggishly turns his head to look at the steering wheel, pets his hand on the dashboard. "Where we goin'?" he slurs, arching in his seat, boots thumping into the footwell.  
  
"Someplace where I'm gonna fuck you," Sam replies, sucks his teeth and looks at the door to Dad's room, wind caressing his cheeks.  
  
"How far's it?"  
  
"Not that far," Sam says absently, caught up in the surreality. God, he's actually doing this. Him and Dean are actually gonna get away, get out of this dumb lifestyle and make their own. Won't be any more Dad to contend with, won't be any more dreary hours on the road, or cramped motel rooms and fast food.  
  
Him and Dean can have a whole stretch of woods to themselves, go back to living the right way—off the land like wolves are meant to. Free, like wolves are meant to be.  
  
Sam shuts Dean's door as softly as possible and heads around to the driver's side, ducking into the seat. He shuts his door—quiet, quiet, quiet—pulls the keys from his hoodie.  
  
He expects Dean to gripe about him not having a license, but Dean's shifting restlessly beside him, soft pants filling the car and _Sam please, Sammy, hurry_ and heatscent, thick and calling.  
  
God, Dean's completely out of his head. Turned into a needy, wet thing that knows only the worldshrinking desire to get two things inside him: Sam's cock, Sam's baby.  
  
Panting himself, Sam unglues his eyes from his mate and manages to get the key in the ignition. The car growls to life and makes Sam wince, but he's quick to pull out of the parking lot.  
  
His guts only untangle when they're on the road and the Impala's eating up the pavement.  
  
He glances over at Dean, touches his knee, which pushes wide into his hand. "How're you doin'?"  
  
Dean doesn't answer. Sam keeps a hand on the wheel and an eye on the road and slides his palm across Dean's thigh, to the waistband of his sweats and works his hand under.  
  
"Ah!" Dean cries out when Sam touches his hard cock. "Sam!" He arches deeply, sobs when Sam wraps his fingers around his dick and gives it a stroke. "Suh—am!"  
  
" _Fuck_ ," Sam wheezes, trying to keep thinking straight as his own cock aches and throbs with his heart. It takes only three short pulls for Dean to shudder and come—to buck his hips into Sam's touch and keen and spurt over Sam's fingers.  
  
Sam takes his messy hand out and licks it clean, barely manages to turn onto the on-ramp in time.  
  
Dean notices the increase in speed. "We almost there?" he asks between labored breaths.  
  
"Just a few exits," Sam says, checking the signs. The Impala hums in victory as she's removed from the shackles of city speed limits. Sam goes eighty-five, feels the vibrations in his teeth.  
  
The reprieve for Dean doesn't last; by the time they're three exits down, Dean's squirming once more and making high-pitched noises, each sending a rush right to Sam's dick. "Sam please, jus' pull 'ver and fuck me," he whines, hands stupidly grabbing at the door handle, the seat, himself. "Oh God, _need you_."  
  
Sam swallows thickly and presses the gas a little harder. He'd floor it if he didn't have to watch for signs, which are already streaking past nearly before he can read them.  
  
When their exit comes up, Sam slows and switches onto it, sighing in relief. "Just gimme five more minutes Dean," he says. They're in Northern California now, where the trees look just as tall as they did in Oregon. Sam gets on the main road, travels through the city, then the outskirts of the city, where the roads lose their pavement.  
  
Where he parks is tucked away from all else, no buildings or people in sight. He kills the engine and gets out. There's the barest sound of lapping water just in the periphery of his hearing—there's a lake nearby, which is just what the map described.  
  
Sam breathes the dewy air a moment, already feeling at peace under the sentinel-trees and on top of the organic ground.  
  
But he doesn't waste any more time.  
  
He goes around to the passenger door and opens it, catches Dean when he falls out and hauls him up so he's wobbling on his feet, leaning heavily on Sam.  
  
"We're here," Sam tells him as Dean's head lolls on his shoulder.  
  
"Here," Dean mumbles, then seems to grasp the implications of the word because he tries to fall out of Sam's hold to get on the ground like his instincts insist.  
  
Sam keeps him upright, walks them around the Impala, until he can push Dean down onto the hood. Dean hisses softly; it's probably hot, but he then spreads his legs wide and sets his hands wider.  
  
It's a perfect picture, even in the near light—his perfect, pretty mate laid out on his own car, shameless with need, out of his mind with heat.  
  
Feeling too big for his skin, Sam unknots the drawstring of his pants and lets them fall around his ankles. His cock kisses the cool air, breaks goosebumps all over his skin. "Gonna fuck you Dean," he says to his mate, just to drink in how Dean's hips cant up, how he moans breathily and says, "please, please," brought down to the lowest peg.  
  
Sam pulls Dean's pants off him in a single jerky move, lets them fall away onto the ground. The smell of Dean's slick pervades his senses, shining on Dean's inner thighs, quickly pooling on the hood and getting into the grille there's so fucking much of it.  
  
"God," Sam gasps weakly, hands flitting around Dean's hips and thighs. He wants to lick it all up, up to the source and stab his tongue inside Dean, eat him out for fucking hours until Dean's got no slick left to make. "Look how fuckin' wet you are, Dean. God. All for me."  
  
It's crazy. It's making Sam dizzy. Makes his insides fold up and his wolf yammer. Trying just to breathe, Sam swoops in over Dean to kiss him, sloppy and noisy. In a parallel of earlier, Dean jolts up the hood and hooks his legs around Sam. It tips his ass at just the right angle that Sam's cock slides into his wet crevice.  
  
Dean pulls his mouth away to breathe against the side of his face, slipping his heels down Sam's back until they can dig into Sam's ass and push his hips in.  
  
And Sam's inside, all of a sudden, all the way to the hilt. He chokes as Dean makes a long, low sound of satisfaction, sinuously rolling up.  
  
Sam's wolf bursts out, filling his mouth with teeth and his mind with a single, burning need—to fuckfuckfuck and fill his mate with pups, get Dean big and heavy.  
  
He pulls out, shoves back in, thrusts quickly turning into a series of rough slaps of his hips against Dean's ass. He pounds for all he's worth, trying to get in deeper every time, teeth clenched and spit spraying the windshield.  
  
"Yes," Dean says, hanging on tight. "Yes Sam, fuck me. Fuckin' need it, fuckin' need you." He pulls Sam's hair, the other hand clawing at his spine through the thick protection of his hoodie. "Please, _Christ_ —wanna have your pups. Want them in me. Every single one, wanna catch the first time, need to—"  
  
"Good," out, "bitch," in, forcing Dean up the hood with the force. Sam attacks Dean's neck, biting and scraping his teeth over his throat, in the hollow of his collarbones, hands coming up to split his shirt open so he can devour his nipples, puncturing Dean's pectorals with his teeth and swishing his tongue in the blood that dribbles before the skin knits.  
  
Dean takes it all and gasps for more, being so fucking good Sam's left breathless and floundering, trying to bury himself ever deeper.  
  
Dean comes, manages to come again before Sam can even get stuck in him—arching up, shoving his ribs into Sam's and contracting around him, crying out, "fuck _yes_!" and twisting. He grabs big handfuls of Sam's hair and pulls savagely while Sam bites him in retaliation, thrusts losing any sense of rhythm.  
  
Then Dean's jumping up suddenly, pushing off the hood and taking them both to the ground. Sam's back hits the dirt and damp starts soaking through his hoodie, cold compared to the return heat of Dean on top of him, around him when he takes Sam back inside in a hard drop of his hips.  
  
Dean's like a hurricane, a storm showcasing the ultimate force of nature. Unchained, uninhibited, grabbing Sam's face in his hands and eating his lips and tongue, hips shoving forward and back, then up and down like he can't decide which way to fuck himself.  
  
"My Sammy," Dean growls into his mouth, thumbs dancing around his cheekbones and smoothing over his eyebrows. "Mine, mine, mine."  
  
"Mine," Sam snarls back, fucking his hips up to meet Dean's every fourth drop. He pants frantically when the ache in his cock coalesces at the base, claws at Dean's jerking hips.  
  
Dean gasps and rears up, powerful and wild, amulet snapping the air. He sits and rolls his hips in, back, mouth hanging open. Sam pierces the inside of his cheek with a fang and his vision sparkles as blood slides down his throat. He's incapable of doing anything but letting Dean rut on his cock, encouraging his knot to plump up. He's too damn weak; struck dumb and dizzy and damn happy too.  
  
He closes his eyes when the world gets too bright.

  
***

  
  
On the third day of Dean's heat, Sam goes up to his knees in lake water while the birds sing, holds his hand out for Dean. "C'mon."  
  
Dean, toes sinking into silt, looks a little apprehensive, but wraps his fingers around Sam's wrist and lets him lead them in, till water laps at their waists. Dean lets go then, shivering. "'s cold."  
  
"It's great," Sam corrects, though he rubs at Dean's sweat-slick shoulders. "Don't you wanna cool down?"  
  
"Just gonna get hot again," Dean says, flicking too-bright eyes over Sam's face, leaning in close until his breath washes over his chin. Sam pecks him on the lips and wraps his hands low around his waist, tugging them together.  
  
Dean's scent intensifies, not reaching the height it had on the first day, but it makes Sam's nostrils flare and his cock stiffen. But Dean settles for mouthing at his neck, then just resting his chin on his shoulder. His chest rises into Sam's as he sighs. "Do you think I caught?" he asks, or rather wonders aloud—in the heat fever, he tends to just say whatever he's thinking.  
  
"Maybe," Sam replies, hand traveling down to where Dean's slick and ever-ready, dips his finger inside.  
  
Dean's breath hitches. "How—how soon can you tell?"  
  
Sam ducks his head to lick around Dean's Mark, like kissing a 9-volt when his tongue slides along the edges. "Soon as I can smell it. A week or two, maybe."  
  
He presses in another finger and thrusts them in and out, water stirring around his flexing wrist. "Dean?"  
  
"Ye—yeah?"  
  
Sam looks at him, sliding his unoccupied hand up Dean's torso until he can cup the side of Dean's pleasure-suffused face. "Dean, you're gonna stay here, right? With me?"  
  
Dean nods, eyelids flickering because he's trying to keep them open to look at Sam; always does that now, has to keep his eyes on Sam like bugs to a buglight. "With you."  
  
Sam grins, brushing his thumb over the bitten swell of Dean's bottom lip. "Make a den. Start our own pack. Live by our own rules. Sounds good, right?"  
  
Dean hums in agreement, tongue poking out from his lips to drag over the pad of Sam's thumb. He nips it, then pulls it into his mouth like his greedy hole pulls in Sam's fingers.  
  
Sam walks them to shore and fucks him on the silt. And later that day, up against a tree.  
  
At night, when the fireflies flash their mating lights and the crickets rub their wings together, Sam scoops Dean's hips back and up and pushes inside once more, the dry dirt beneath the trees dusting their skin. He goes slow while Dean pants for faster, lets his hips rock gently and strokes Dean's back and says, "I love you," maybe, lost underneath Dean's begging.

  
***

  
  
Dean asks where they are on the fifth day. Some of the flush has left his face, some of the haze has left his mind. His eyes are growing dim again.  
  
Sam tries to abate that approaching dark by bringing him food. It's his job to provide, so he shifts and runs down a deer. Only the second time he's ever killed one, and he could just get dressed and drive into town, bring Dean diner food, but prey's plentiful this time of year, and Sam needs to wean them both off their previous diet.  
  
As a wolf, Sam's got no issue with eating the deer raw, but Dean—stubbornly in his human form—would, so Sam gets a lighter from the car and branches from some dead trees and gets a fire going, puts the meat over it. Next to him Dean's quiet but not still, jiggling his leg and tapping his thighs, looking around every few minutes. His restlessness makes Sam restless, makes him coil tight like a spring ready to catch Dean should he try and take off.  
  
"Where are we again?" Dean asks, breaking the silence. Sam looks at the still-raw meat and wonders if he could get Dean to eat it, wonders if that would distract him.  
  
"We're home," Sam says after some long seconds. "This is where we're going to start our pack."  
  
Dean shakes his head. "Our home, Sammy? This isn't..." Dean trails off, rubbing his temple. He looks around and squints. "Den?"  
  
Sam rests a hand on his knee. "We're gonna make one, okay? Don't worry about it."  
  
Dean whips his head back and forth, eyes tracking from Sam, to the fire, to the trees around. "I don't feel right. This is... this is..." Dean touches the ground, then flits his hands over Sam. "There's something, there's somebody, God I don't, I don't _remember_ but something's wrong, Sammy. There's this fog in my head, I—"  
  
Sam grabs his wrists, tight, "you're in heat, Dean. Not thinking straight. Once it's over you'll see that this is where we belong, all right?"  
  
It's the very opposite of the truth, and Sam knows that in his heart of hearts. Once the fever lifts...  
  
"I'm your mate, Dean, your Alpha. You know that right?"  
  
Dean relaxes a little. "Yeah—you got your Mark on me."  
  
"That's right," Sam says gently, "that's right. That means I'm gonna take care of you. That means I'm all you need. There's no one and nowhere else you need to worry about." Sam's voice scrapes the air as he puts a little Alpha behind the words.  
  
Dean shudders, then gives Sam a familiar dazed smile. "Yeah," he agrees.  
  
When the meat is cooked, they eat, then mate again. Dean's quieter this time, backlit by the fire. It encroaches over his shoulders and arms but leaves his face dark.  
  


 

***

  
  
Sam wakes up on the seventh day to a weight on top of him and something sharp digging into his throat. He opens his eyes slowly, staying very still.  
  
Dean's there, filling up Sam's vision, eyes lit and lip quivering up to reveal his fangs. "Where's my keys?"  
  
Sam licks his lips, looks around to take stock while his brain shrugs off sleep. It's a cloudy grey morning, framing Dean in white. Dean, who no longer smells alluring but like acidic rage that stings Sam's eyes and bobs his throat under Dean's claws. Dean's shirtless and covered in dirt, but he's wearing a clean pair of jeans he must've gotten from the car, knees pressing Sam's wrists into the ground painfully.  
  
Dean rumbles low in his throat and clenches his palm around Sam's trachea. "Where are they you son-of-a-bitch!"  
  
They're in Sam's discarded hoodie about ten feet away, but Dean doesn't need to know that. Sam clenches his teeth but keeps his voice level, "calm down."  
  
Dean snorts sardonically, lips pulling into a mean grin. "You'd like that wouldn't you? Well guess what asshole, the bats are outta my belfry now, and you're gonna tell me where my fuckin' keys are before I take your throat out."  
  
"You wouldn't," Sam says. "You _can't_. You gonna run back to Dad without me? Tell him you killed me?"  
  
"I'll tell him you were a mad dog who needed to be put down. I'll tell him the truth; I'll tell him you've been completely off the rails for _months_ , I'll tell him what you've done to me. I'll tell him _all_ about you, Sammy. Don't think I won't. Don't think I _can't_."  
  
Dean quakes as he tightens his claws—Sam can see his wolf blazing in his eyes, the twitches beneath his skin from his bones starting to shift. When Sam gets a wrist out from under his knee and takes Dean around his own throat, heaving up and over to slam him into the ground, the animal within Dean surges out.  
  
In a tornado of thrashes, tawny fur bursts from Dean's skin, bones break and push out from his body grossly before they crunch back together in their new shape. Dean's muzzle whips for Sam's throat and he falls back, feels the brush of heat as teeth narrowly miss his jugular.  
  
Dean's on his legs quick, jeans falling away, black lips pulled high and growling, ears pinned back. Sam's wolf rises and takes over automatically, leaps through his skin with the sole idea to make his mate submit once and for all.  
  
He hasn't come this far just to lose it all, he isn't going to.  
  
Sam circles Dean. His mate's impressive—thick with muscle and golden fur that turns paler around his face and underbelly, green, rounded eyes and hindquarters. His withers are lower than Sam's, but they're more or less matched in size and power.  
  
The circle inevitably tightens, until Dean lunges at him, jaws open wide. Sam dodges, swerves around. He's got more experience in this form, plus he's thinking clearer than Dean, who's wild-eyed and attacks, attacks, attacks. Sam jumps back again and again, watching for an opening; if he can get on Dean's back and pull his scruff between his teeth, it should calm him down.  
  
Dean's lunges push them further into the woods, further still as Dean gets frustrated and comes at him harder. When Sam feels his tailtip brush against a tree he cuts to the side before Dean can corner him, twists and gets a mouthful of Dean's ruff before the other wolf howls in outrage and snaps his jaws closed around Sam's ear, pulls.  
  
Sam keens in pain as a good portion of the delicate skin rips away with Dean's teeth. He dances away, but Dean explodes at him, bowling him onto his back. Warnings scream inside Sam's head with his belly exposed to Dean's claws, _vulnerablevulnerablevulnerable_. He growls and bites Dean's muzzle before it can go to his throat, fills up with anger and the overwhelming instinct to make Dean submit. He shoves his hindlegs into Dean's belly then rolls to his paws again, feels himself start to shift once more.  
  
Dean looks fixed to jump at him, but falls back when Sam's muscles start bulging out, as he starts getting bigger.  
  
Sam's vision pulses and turns violent red as he convulses, limbs stretching out, ribs fitting into a new, wider cage. He roars through the scarlet and darts forward at Dean, who pauses a single moment before he turns tail and starts eating up dirt and tree roots.  
  
Running back to the car, back to _Dad_.  
  
 _No_.  
  
Sam bounds after him on two legs at first, then drops down to four and extends himself over the distance between them. They crash out of the trees, Dean whipping past the Impala without a glance in its direction. Sam almost gets a mouthful of grille before he stretches up and leaps, sailing over the car cleanly. They rip out grass as they speed down the hill.  
  
To his credit, Dean does get two paws on the road, on the road back to Dad. But just as his hindlegs are about to catch up, Sam's on him, biting brutally between his shoulder blades and hauling him back into the grass. Dean yelps and Sam pulls his teeth away, aware of how small Dean is compared to him like this; Sam could snap him right in two with his jaws. Instead, he grabs the thick, loose skin on Dean's neck and forces his head down. "Shift," Sam snaps out, nearly unintelligible with his muzzle and the rudimentary vocal chords of his Alpha form.  
  
But Dean understands clear enough; his fur pulls in, leaves naked human skin and his bones stretch and push out then reform into a human body, curled up like a cub beneath Sam's dark, furred fingers. Sam stares down at him a few seconds, just to appreciate the utterly submissive pose he's got Dean in, before he turns back himself.  
  
When he's smooth-skinned again, he drapes himself over Dean's back, letting his neck go. Dean stays obedient beneath him, though grass must be itching his nose and dirt must be getting between his teeth.  
  
"You're not Dad's," Sam says, using his Alpha Voice to try and penetrate the notion into Dean's head. "You're mine, you belong to _me_. You go where I go, stay where I stay."  
  
"And if you try and pull that again," Sam says that evening, cupping lake water in his palm and washing off the dirt and grass blades on Dean's face and hair. "There won't be a Dad for you to run back to. Get it? This is the only way all three of us can live."  
  
"Dad's gonna look for us," Dean says. He's staring past Sam's shoulder at the lake, where the full moon turns the center into an aisle of white and the fish jump like roses. "He needs us. He needs _me_. He can't lose me too, after Mom..."  
  
"He'll be fine. He's got his revenge mission to keep him going. That's all he's ever needed." Sam smoothes his wet fingers under Dean's eyes and turns his face a little so he can look at him. "Dean."  
  
Dean blinks at him, eyes wet and dull. Sam kisses his lax lips softly. Dean makes a strangled noise and jerks back, but that's okay.  
  
He'll come around.  
  


***

  
  
"Just water for now," John says to the waitress, who has a name tag that says Mary in blue ink. She doesn't look like Mary, doesn't even look like _a_ Mary, but she's pretty. Too young for John though, whose got grey around the temples and more lines around his eyes day by day, it seems.  
  
John nods his thanks when she brings him the water. The ice clinks when he takes a long drink. It's big city water and not the best tasting, but then again John can't remember the last time he drank something that didn't burn his throat. Been years, coming up on three decades.  
  
When the glass is half-empty John sets it back on the table and sighs, rubs a hand over his face. When he leans back in the booth, the Colt inside his jacket jostles against his ribs, cold as ice but lighter than it had been last night. Much lighter.  
  
There's a high-pitched peal of laughter to his left and John looks over to see two kids in the booth beside his with their hands over their mouths to muffle further giggles. One looks around ten and has wheat colored hair down to his chin and the other's a younger girl with coppery curls bunched over her ears. Both are dressed in shorts and have dirty feet like they've been running outside all day.  
  
The waitress comes back over with the pitcher of water and notices where John is looking. She sucks her teeth and puts a hand on her hip, "what are you two doing back in here, huh?"  
  
"Playin' hide-an'-go-seek!" the girl exclaims gleefully, before she slaps her hand back over her mouth when the boy shushes her frantically. They both look at the waitress. Both have green eyes.  
  
Both look _familiar_ and John's insides coil tight and his heart leaps up in his tonsils.  
  
Mary the waitress tsks. "You know how mad your parents get when you run off. It scares them when you go hidin' in here. Your daddy's gonna come in here any second and he's gonna be mad!"  
  
The boy takes his hand off his mouth to say, "we want somethin' to eat! I want a hamburger, whadda you want Mary?"  
  
Mary the kid drops her hand from her mouth as well and grins. She's missing a few teeth and dimples show in her soft cheeks. "Sketti!"  
  
"She means spaghetti," the boy says to the waitress. John notices he's got spots on his cheeks and nose that at first he thinks are dirt flecks, but realizes are freckles.  
  
"I know what she means," the waitress says tersely. "But neither of you are payin' customers, last I checked."  
  
The boy smiles sheepishly, a familiar smile that John knows is gonna break its share of hearts in the future. "I got this," he says, reaching into his shorts pocket and pulling out a credit card.  
  
John has a feeling this is an oft-repeated situation because older Mary just gives John a _can you believe him_ look before she turns back to the boy. "Mm-hmm. That your name signed on the back?"  
  
"...no."  
  
"Whose name is on the back?"  
  
The boy squints at the card. "Uh, An—Angus, Pres—Pre _sley_..."  
  
"Uh-huh. Angus Presley. Are you Angus Presley?"  
  
"No!" Little Mary squeals. "He's Eric!"  
  
John blinks. Eric smiles big and wide at older Mary, _aw shucks dear_ , and John aches. He hasn't seen that smile in a lotta years.  
  
Older Mary sighs deeply and gives John a refill on his water before looking at the two kids. "Spaghetti and a burger?"  
  
"Yep," both of them say.  
  
She rolls her eyes, "I'll tell the chef," and she turns to walk away, just as John hears someone burst into the diner with a panicked heart and yell, "Mary!?"  
  
All four of them turn to the source of the rough voice.  
  
John's thinks he's dreaming for a few strange moments—he's had ones very much like this one a few times. Or maybe he died with Yellow Eyes and shot up to heaven, because that's his son, his _Dean_ rushing over, nearly toppling the waitress. It has to be. Little older, some lines around his eyes, and he's got tanner skin and a deeper voice but goddamn that's his _son_.  
  
And those are, Eric and little Mary, those are...  
  
"I tried to tell 'em," the waitress says. Dean appears not to hear her—all eyes for the kids now stiff in the booth.  
  
Dean scoops the little girl into his arms and John watches his shoulders heave with a sigh of relief. Little Mary catches John's eyes over Dean's shoulder and blinks at him curiously. John can only blink back.  
  
"God. _God_ , how many times have I told you not to run off like that?" Dean questions. "Huh?"  
  
"A lot," Eric mutters. He's slouched a good way down his seat and looks very guilty.  
  
"We were just playin' hide-an'-go-seek, Mommy," little Mary adds. She wiggles her dirty feet where they're hooked around Dean's sides and blows a raspberry.  
  
 _Mommy_ , John mouths. He's pretty sure his heart's broken in the back of his mouth and he's swallowing the pieces back down.  
  
"Where's Dad?" Eric asks.  
  
Dad. Of course's there's a dad. Of course there's a _Sam_. John can hardly breathe.  
  
"Huntin' for your dinner," Dean says. The kids' dirty feet suddenly make all the sense in the world, and John's shaking hand grabs his glass of water and pours some down his scraped throat. They've been _here_ , this whole time. Living off the land. A rare practice, nowadays, but John might've gone that path with Mary if she had lived to see Sam get a little older.  
  
Someone else bursts into the diner with a panicked heart. "Or not," John hears Dean mutter.  
  
And then there's Sam walking over, older and bigger and—impossibly—taller, but John recognizes him instantly the same way he did Dean. _Sam_ heaves that same breath of relief too, runs a hand back through hair the same exact color of little Mary's.  
  
Sam comes up next to Dean. "Again?" he asks Eric, taking his hand and pulling him out of the booth. Eric, too, peers at John a second before looking up at his father.  
  
"Hide-and-go-seek?" he hazards, smiling that heartbreaker smile.  
  
"More like hide-and-go-seek- _hamburgers_ ," Sam says. "With an extra mini-game of 'scare the crap outta your mom and me.'"  
  
"'m sorry."  
  
"You can't do this anymore, buddy. Had to run down here soon as I came back; some other pack probably stole our deer by now."  
  
"What it a big one?"  
  
Sam's fearscent dies away, replaced with something much lighter. John's eyes sting. Sam smiles indulgently at Eric and tousles his hair. "Oh yeah, it was _huge_. Could've fed us a week."  
  
"Whoa!"  
  
"Yeah, whoa," Dean says flatly, clearly unamused. He jiggles Mary in his arms and turns to look at the waitress, "well, sorry about—"  
  
And he sees John. Locks up and goes quiet, eyes going big and smoothing out the lines around them. Sam turns too when he notices how still Dean's gotten, and then the sons he hasn't seen in over ten years are both looking at him, with his once more half-empty glass of water and the Colt cold on his skin and the hair greying around his temples and the wedding ring he still wears.  
  
"Who's that?" Little Mary whispers to Dean.  
  
"D—Dad?" Dean asks. Something flashes over his face, and for a few moments John sees something much worse there than just plain shock. He sees despair. Guilt. Eyes that beg soundlessly for understanding.  
  
"Dad," Sam says, flat, like someone might say _didn't expect to see you here_ , and there's nothing like Dean's regret in his expression—there's something far worse shining in those animal-eyes, and it answers every single question John's asked himself the last ten years about where his sons went and why.  
  
John thinks the Colt inside his jacket isn't too light. It feels heavier now, a lead weight cold on his bones. He looks at Eric, at the little boy's hand gripping his father's, how he's slid a little behind Sam. Looks at little Mary, with Sam's coppery hair and slanted eyes and dimples.  
  
Looks at Dean, who so obviously is wounded deep—down where John would never be able to stitch—but who so obviously loves the man standing beside him, the little pack they've created.  
  
John stops looking. He takes another drink of water. "Boys," he says.  
  
  
  


_end_


End file.
